Disney's Pocahontas: an extended retelling
by best obsessed
Summary: A retelling of Disney's Pocahontas, now complete. The idea is to see if a serious treatment of the whole story can work. Disclaimer: though some of the characters are my own, most were given their present form by the Disney Corporation.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

'The big one? She's crossing the ocean.'

'The three-master? She's the _Susan Constant_, bound for Virginia.'

'For the new colony?'

'Yes. She's sailing tomorrow if the wind's right. Look, they're boarding already.'

The man who stood just inside the shade of the alleyway that opened onto the wharf half heard the important chatter of the sightseers, the shouts of the dockers loading gear onto the ship, and the screech of the wheeling seagulls. He had heard it all many times before. But the sound, all the same, was part of the familiar elation he felt as he studied the lines of the ship. Beautiful, new and strong – every year they were getting better. Perhaps this voyage would be the one ...

For days it had been the talk of the dockland taverns and guest-houses, as the ship's company assembled, drank together, got to know each other. For months the voyage had been prepared, from manoeuvrings in Court and county to the fixing of the smallest rivets in the _Susan_'s hull. The lives of more than a hundred men had flowed slowly towards this wharf and this ship, from the landowner who had sunk half his fortune into the enterprise, to the sailor making the crossing for cash. There was even a song, which could be heard late at night droning through the lamplit alleys:

_For the New World is like heaven_

_And we'll all be rich and free:_

_It's glory, God and gold in the Virginia Company…_

And now the moment had come: a moment of mixed excitement and dread for most of the voyagers, but pure excitement for the man who stood waiting. He paid attention to the small crowd of men with families, saying goodbye on the wharf. That solid brown-bearded countryman, whirling his young wife around in a bear hug, then holding her at arm's length and looking into her eyes ... That ginger-haired boy, looking enraptured at the ship, then stunned as he saw his mother trying not to cry ... a promising-looking lad, that one ... They would be amazed how quickly he would remember their names. They would all have left a huge part of themselves in England and would be thinking back to it; while for him the start of the voyage would be the start of companionship, of real life.

Time to move. Time, as always, to be noticed. He braced himself just a little and stepped out into the sunshine, slinging his haversack over his shoulder and adjusting the sword and musket that already hung crossed on his back. He passed a bollard where two sailors were lounging:

'Hey, isn't that Smith?' said one to the other, who replied: 'Can't you tell?' and called out: 'Captain Smith! Are you for Virginia too?'

He was answered by a sailor leaning over the rail of the _Susan_. 'Of course he is, you half-wit! He's coming with us! Can't fight Indians without John Smith!'

'That's right,' John Smith called up, grinning. 'You boys need all the help you can get.' A cannon was just being lifted off the dock on a derrick to be swung across to the deck. John Smith stepped onto it, holding the pulley rope with one hand, and rode easily aboard his ship.

The ginger-haired boy had just come up the gangplank. He stopped beside the sailor. 'Is _that_ Captain Smith?'

The sailor, red-haired too with a bushy beard, studied him. 'Aye, it is. Why?'

Thomas Rowe could not very well explain that, from the stories he had heard about Captain Smith's exploits, he had been expecting a scarred and grizzled fighter, not a man hardly ten years older than himself, with fair hair and a face it took your breath away to look at. He covered his tracks quickly: 'Have you sailed with him before?'

'Dead right I have, and the more times the better,' pronounced the sailor.

'Why?' it was Thomas's turn to ask, with interest.

The sailor spat reflectively. Instead of answering he looked Thomas over again: 'You going to the New World to stay? You're young to be leaving home alone and never coming back.'

'I can hold my own,' returned Thomas, wishing that his voice would finish breaking properly.

'What made you want to go? Respectable lad like you. Not girl trouble, was it?'

'Mind your own business.' Thomas was awed by the tough look of all the men he saw on the ship and the way they seemed to do their work with as little thought or effort as pouncing cats. Still, if he was now supposed to be a man among men he needn't put up with anything.

'No offence, boy. We need some of your sort. But it'll be a hard haul. Just as long as you know what you're in for.'

Reassured, Thomas confided: 'It's what I've always wanted to do.' Then he felt foolish, but the man punched him on the arm and said, 'Good for you, mate.' Then he came back to his original subject: 'You'll be right with Captain Smith. He looks after his men, and he's lucky. Know what I mean? Captain Smith, he does things that would get another man killed ten times over, and he gets away with it. A lucky captain means a lucky ship. You'll see.'

After a pause, Thomas said awkwardly, 'I'd best get down below and stow my gear ...'

'Go on. See you later,' said the sailor, grinning.

In the hold was pandemonium, with dozens of men spreading out gear and hammocks between the beams, portly well-shaved men with lace on their cravats, bare-chested, wild-haired sailors, solid countrymen, sharp-looking cockneys. Some were arguing that they or their masters deserved a better place, others, already well ensconced, were lounging, playing dice or whittling. The smell of bilge and unwashed bodies was strong already. Thomas picked a way through the throng, wondering where to put himself. Before he had got far a black-haired, red-nosed man in working clothes hailed him:

'Here, lad! Looking for something?'

'Only a place.'

'Come and join me. I was saving a good one here for a mate and he's made off. You all on your own?'

'Yes.'

'Plenty of room then. Well, when I say plenty: at least you get to know each other quick on these trips. Look, your bag'll go there. Macquarie's the name, Ben Macquarie.'

'I'm Thomas Rowe. ... Are you from Scotland?'

'Aye, I am. Dunblane. But things got a bit thin there, especially for a sheep-stealer who wanted to quit while he was ahead of the game …' he winked at Thomas. 'Come on, let's get back on deck and see the sights. We'll see more than enough of this hold and these fellows before we get to the other side.'

Thomas gave his name to the quartermaster and handed the money he had brought to the purser, and after a while left the ship to have supper and spend his last night on shore at the inn with his family. He could not think of much to say to them. He felt as if the voyage had already started, and the last meeting was unreal. He did not mention his new acquaintances to his father, feeling that he would disapprove; but in the New World, he already knew instinctively, things would be different: the honest man and the thief might change places, and he had better choose his friends with his heart and not his head. Thomas's siblings were awed into silence by the occasion, and his mother just gazed at him, drawing in her breath from time to time but letting it out without speaking. He wanted to tell his younger brothers about Captain Smith, but dared not mention even him: it would have come out that he himself already wanted to be like Captain Smith, and that would be hard on his mother.

The night passed and morning came. When Thomas and his family arrived back at the ship it had become orderly and quiet. Everyone knew their places now, and the sailors moved around purposefully, getting ready to depart. The only hubbub came from the rails where men hung over and their families and friends reached up, shaking hands, bantering, exchanging keepsakes and last-minute messages.

'Look,' said Thomas after a while, 'they're getting the guard of honour ready for the governor. We're all supposed to have boarded before he comes. I'd better get on, Mother.'

'All right,' said Mistress Rowe. 'God bless you, son,' said her husband. One more tight embrace and it was over. Thomas felt relieved, but very empty, as he scurried up the gangway.

The jingle of harness sounded through the noise of the crowd as a coach and four appeared, the horses trotting briskly. It drew up, a footman opened the door with a flourish, and out stepped Sir John Ratcliffe, Governor of Virginia. Tall, with a large paunch which he carried with dignity; his hair in dark ringlets; dressed in purple velvet with a plume in his hat and his chain of office round his neck, he strode haughtily across the wharf and onto the ship, just deigning to acknowledge the salutes of the crew and the cheers of the onlookers. After him came a slight, immaculately dressed manservant.

The captain welcomed Ratcliffe aboard and as soon as they had exchanged a few words the governor gave the word to depart. The gangplank was drawn in. A boat was launched ready to tow the ship clear. The last few rats, whiffling and squeaking, ran out along the ropes to make sure of their berths. The moorings were cast off one by one, and the ship moved out into the current. Thomas Rowe stood in a line of men waving at the rail, seeing sad faces getting further away, wishing he had told his mother how much he loved her. Governor Ratcliffe gazed around his panelled cabin and began demanding of Wiggins, his servant, where everything was. To a sing-song chant, the red-haired sailor and Ben Macquarie took their places among the others and began to haul up the mainsail. And John Smith, having given all his orders, walked forward to the bows as far as he could and looked ahead, impatient to reach the open sea.


	2. Chapter 2

15

CHAPTER 2

In his first few days on the voyage Thomas felt as if he was constantly in the wrong place at the wrong time. Where to sit, where to eat, where to evacuate his bowels, where to lay things down for a moment – he knew none of it. But he soon grew used to the strange provisional nature of life on board. There was plenty to do. The chaplain held a daily service in the hold to which no one could avoid paying some attention; Ben Macquarie unexpectedly supplemented this with readings and expositions from a well-worn Bible to anyone who would listen; the governor gave a stirring speech on the first afternoon in which he dwelt on the honour of serving King and country in distant lands; and the captain held exercise and training in arms on the after-deck every day, enlivened by amusing and hair-raising stories about battles he had survived. Almost as much of a force on the ship as Captain Smith was his first mate, Christopher Dawkins, not the soldier that Smith primarily was, but an older sailor of great experience. On top of this, Thomas looked for information from any source available. The richest settlers, who shared cabins above the main hold, kept him at a distance, but the surgeon and the alchemist on board were pleased to talk to him. He bundled up all that he could remember of what he was told and began writing it down in a letter to his family, which he kept wrapped in oil-cloth and scribbled on his knee on a thwart whenever he had a spare moment.

Above all, though, he wanted to learn how to sail. There was a division between crew and settlers but it was not absolute. Some of the sailors intended to stay in Virginia, and some of the settlers helped to work the ship. One of these was Ben, who had worked on timber ships in the Baltic. Ben had made friends with Lon Cardon, the red-bearded sailor with whom Thomas had spoken on the first day, and the pair took Thomas under their wings. He did not want anyone knowing how much harder the life aboard ship was than he had imagined – the dismal food, stale water and never enough of it, never being dry, the burning rime of salt always on one's skin, and the close, stinking air below decks - all this was hard to bear, although at least he was not seasick. Bad as it all was, he did not want to take it like the few other very young men on board. They had all come as servants to the more important settlers, and spent their free time grumbling, boasting and playing cards, except when the captain forced them to their daily exercise. Thomas did not want merely to put up with the hardship, he wanted to become a man by means of it.

He was very nervous at first, and not only because he feared disgrace. He felt a reverence he could never have explained for the ship itself. The towering masts, the webs of tensed ropes, the straining canvas and the timbers all aligned to the purpose of motion, held an almost mystical beauty for him. The men who tended this were like priests of a strange cult, or players in the music of wind and sea. At first Thomas felt that to touch anything would be sacrilege. For Lon and the others it was just a job. They would only have laughed at him had they known, yet he felt that they were wasting their privilege not to know how marvellous was the work they were doing.

As he learned he felt reassured, yet sad at how incommunicable his passion was; but he gradually became convinced that there was at least one man who felt as he did, and that was Captain Smith. The captain spoke to everyone on board at least once every couple of days, and looked to everyone's training personally. He did not single Thomas out, and Thomas would rather have died than call any special attention to himself. But he noticed the way the captain looked at the white wings of the staysails when they were particularly beautifully set, or glanced up at the flag which flew from the mainmast to get the feel of the wind, and he was almost sure that it meant you could be a real captain and still be in love with your ship; in other words, that it might be possible for him, Thomas, to become like John Smith.

There was another side to John Smith that he was even less sure he could live up to: nor did he want to have to. On balance, however, he was very glad that it was there. It became evident several days into the voyage, on an evening when Thomas had been sitting in the hold playing a desultory game of cards with a boy called Harry Dean. There was nothing to do: there had been rough seas off Cornwall and a strong smell of vomit still hung about, but now, well out into the ocean, there was a flat calm. The ship had ghosted forward through the day, moving steadily slower until now, at evening, she was going nowhere; the only motion was a lazy yawing from side to side on the large, smooth swells. Thomas kept touching his tongue to his lips where the salt water had cracked them, and there were sore patches of skin here and there under his damp clothes. At least the day had been warm, although the clammy chill now was driving more and more men below deck; they loomed up as shadowy shapes at the edge of the light of the lantern that swung monotonously to and fro.

'Tell me if you see my master,' said Harry.

'Why?'

'He doesn't like me playing cards. He's bound to find me something else to do.'

'Would that be so bad?'

'Everything's bad. At least when you're playing, you're not working. You win that one. My deal.'

Two large men leaned over the thwart. Thomas hoped it was Lon and Ben, but it turned out to be two others he had distrusted on sight, one Simon Hay, and a companion whose name Thomas did not know. 'Have you got cards?' asked Simon, at once sitting down. 'Give us a round, then.'

'No, thanks,' said Thomas quickly, 'I've had enough of it.'

'"I've had enough of it"', mimicked the second man. 'You will, won't you, Harry?' He took the half-dealt pack of cards out of Harry's hand and scooped the dealt ones up.

'It isn't a full pack,' said Harry defensively. 'I lost the queen of spades and a couple of others in the storm.'

The two men laughed heartily and nudged each other. 'That doesn't matter, we can allow for that, can't we, George?' Thomas was nervous. The bullying manner beneath the surface friendliness of the pair was obvious. He could see how little choice Harry had had about whether to play, and was conscious that, by refusing so quickly himself, he had made it even harder for him.

'Stakes?' asked Simon Hay and paused.

'A groat first time, then double,' said Harry unhesitatingly. Thomas felt less sorry for him.

Harry won the first game and the second. Then Simon won three games in a row. The stake was now four shillings.

'Come on, put your money down,' said Simon's friend, shuffling the cards.

'I haven't any more of my own,' said Harry.

'Back it with a bit of your master's, then,' said Simon. 'You're sure to win it all back next round.'

'Yes,' agreed Simon's friend. 'He's the world's worst player.'

'No, I can't,' said Harry. 'Squire Hales'll kill me if he finds out.'

Thomas sat uneasily, looking around vainly for Lon and Ben, wondering whether to go and find Harry's master, the sour-faced Squire Hales, whom he knew by sight. As matters still seemed good-humoured, he hesitated.

'No need for him to find out,' said Simon's friend. 'Look, you can't lose. I'll chuck my hand in, I'll help you, and Simon'll be on his own.'

Harry agreed to this. Simon's friend sat behind him with his arm around his shoulders, scanning his cards and choosing them for him. Sure enough, Harry won that round, and raked a small heap of coins towards himself on the thwart. Then he put down four more.

After two more rounds Thomas could see where the game was tending. The friend was leaning on Harry and pushing him this way and that as he surveyed his hand, then choosing cards at random and throwing them onto Simon's, chuckling at the absurd choices he made. Harry lost, naturally. Several more men had come up and were watching the game and laughing. Harry laughed, too. Thomas watched in disbelief, wondering how long his vanity would prevent him from protesting. He was putty in their hands. A new game started, for the biggest stake yet. Thomas could now hardly see for the crowd of onlookers.

'That one wins,' he heard Simon say.

'You haven't put anything down,' protested Harry.

'Yes he has,' said Simon's friend. 'It's the queen of spades. You said she was missing. You saw he didn't pick a card up last turn. If he had picked one up, it would have been the queen of spades.'

'That's not fair,' interposed Thomas. Everyone ignored him, but Harry echoed him: 'That's not fair.'

'Oh yes, it's fair if you're not playing with a full pack; that's the rule, isn't it, George?'

'I'm not playing any more, then,' said Harry at last.

'Well, then, time to pay. You owe me sixteen shillings.'

'I haven't got it,' said Harry desperately.

'Oh come on,' said Simon. 'I bet your master puts plenty in your pocket. Let's see, shall we, George?' He took hold of Harry by the waistcoat and pulled him forward. Harry tried to push him off, and the next moment had been lifted bodily off the thwart. Thomas dived away through the hold, looking this way and that for Harry's master. He couldn't believe that no one was going to stop this robbery. Where was the purser? Or Sir Richard, the knight from Devon? Or anybody?

'They're fighting below decks! Stop them!' he bellowed at random, scrambling up the ladder in the waist of the ship, and was shocked to find himself face to face with Captain Smith.

'What's going on, boy?' said the captain sharply, taking Thomas by the elbow and hoisting him up the last two steps.

'Sir, Simon Hay cheated Harry at cards and they're taking his money,' babbled Thomas, feeling utterly foolish. Perhaps this sort of thing went on all the time when you weren't at school any more. Hay would rob Harry, Harry's master would cuff him, and that was the end of the matter; it would be completely beneath the captain's notice.

But, 'Stay here a minute, Thomas,' John Smith said quietly and then vaulted at one spring down the ladder. Thomas obeyed; though he peered through the trap-door, he could not really see what was going on, but he heard a hubbub of laughter and yells suddenly cut through by a shout of 'Silence!' and silence there was.

'How did this boy get like that?' Thomas heard John Smith's voice, low and sharp.

'His head went in the bilge,' someone muttered.

'Who did it?'

Silence.

'It was you, wasn't it, Simon Hay?'

'What if it was?' said Simon, in surly tones. 'We only…' Then there was the crack of a blow across someone's face, then a choking bellow. 'Stand, up, man, and hold your noise,' came Smith's voice again, hard as Thomas had never heard it.

He climbed stealthily down the ladder. The onlookers were dead quiet now, and John Smith was holding Simon Hay – who must have weighed half as much again as he did – upright by the collar and the wrist. A streak of dark blood showed across Simon's pasty face.

'Perhaps you need reminding of the rules on my ship,' said the captain. 'No gambling.' He cracked Simon's head smartly against the thwart behind him. 'No brawling.' He did it again. 'No robbery. And no insolence. If I catch you at it again, you'll be flogged. Ten strokes the first time, twenty the second time. Do you understand me?'

For a moment it looked as if Simon Hay might brave it out, but then he muttered, 'Yes, sir.'

'Then give the boy his money back.'

Simon sullenly counted out the sixteen shillings.

'And you,' said Smith to Harry, 'pay attention and be more careful of your company next time.'

'Yes, sir,' said Harry sheepishly.

'Go up on deck, both of you,' Smith finished by ordering Simon Hay and his friend. 'Mate Dawkins will find some work for your idle hands.'

Not until they had gone did Smith himself turn to follow them up the ladder, to a very subdued titter of released tension among the men left in the hold. Thomas made to get as far away as possible from the captain as he passed; he was frightened. Yet John Smith met his eyes and gave him a very slight nod, as if of approval.

When Thomas next saw Harry, the latter had cleaned most of the bilge off his hair with buckets of sea water.

'All right?' Thomas asked him in a low voice.

'Yes, no thanks to you, you little fool,' said Harry bitterly. 'Why did you have to meddle? Now I'll never hear the last of it.'

Thomas did not know whether he meant from his master, from the captain or from Simon Hay, but neither of the latter, as it proved, ever referred to the business again. Captain Smith behaved as if nothing had happened; while Hay's loud voice was not at all in evidence in the hold that night. For the whole of the rest of the voyage he was remarkably quiet.

Thomas, for the first time, had an idea of how ugly the new life he had let himself in for could be. Yet, more than anything else in the world, he still wanted to be like

John Smith, if it killed him.

*****

It nearly did.

They had rough weather at times, but nothing like the storm that struck after they had been eight weeks at sea. In mid-afternoon it came up black in the east, so fast that they hardly had time to reef the sails before the masts were whipping in the wind and waves towering above the ship.

At first Thomas was more excited than worried. All the sailors had said that the _Susan_ was a fine ship that could ride out any storm, and as the timbers shuddered and the spray flew up he felt the glory of voyaging more keenly than ever. But he saw the men's anxiety growing: orders were shouted angrily; men looked about them with staring eyes; they muttered prayers and made covert good-luck signs, and presently seemed to see only the ship and the storm and not to recognise each other at all. As darkness drew in, Thomas felt the ache of panic rising in him. Ships did founder in storms like this. It was perfectly possible that they were all going to die, and looking around him he could not imagine how they would escape. Each wave menaced the tiny ship like a black wall. As it rode up the swell, the deck tilted to the pitch of a roof; everyone had to stop what they were doing and cling on; then the waves broke and the white water poured over everything, plunging the deck under as if it were a sandbank under a rising tide. Each time Thomas was astounded that the ship could float again at all. Below decks it was even worse. In the darkness the passengers huddled on the thwarts, groaning and cursing and grabbing for handholds. To cross the hold was to wade knee deep in swirling, sucking water, becoming entangled in people's floating belongings. It was getting deeper. There was only a tiny amount of wood and air left in the world: everything else was water running loose, wild and murderous, above and below.

Thomas took a spell at a pump, and, when he was worn out, struggled to the ladder. He wanted to get up on deck again, where if he drowned at least it would be under the open sky, not trapped like a puppy in a sack. And he wanted to get a glimpse of the captain. Before Thomas went below, he had been so confused by the avalanches of water and the bucking of the ship that he could hardly remember which rope he was holding onto, or which way was fore and which aft. Yet to the captain it all made sense. To him, the ship was not a chaos of imminent death, it was a machine doing the task it had been made for. Thomas had seen him moving everywhere carefully and confidently, keeping every aspect of the ship's struggle in sight; not only that, but recognising and heartening every man he passed. Thomas thought that he himself might be able to quell his panic if he could only see John Smith again.

He crouched holding onto the hatch and looked around between waves. After a while he saw him, half way out along the main boom working with another man to put a lashing on a broken spar. His hair was so plastered down with wet that it took Thomas a second glance to recognise him. The next moment he saw something else. The cannon nearest to him on the after-deck was moving. He ran to it and clung on through the next wave, and heard the groaning of the ropes that lashed it down. Two strands snapped.

Terrified, he raised his head and yelled: 'Captain! The cannon are breaking loose!' He put his shoulder against the sliding gun, using strength he never knew he had, and succeeded in forcing it back into position until an unexpected tilt of the deck rolled it back to him again, bruising him in the face. He shook the sodden hair out of his eyes and tried again.

Suddenly John Smith was beside him, a hank of rope over one arm. 'Don't worry, Thomas,' he said briskly. 'We'll get them tied down.' He braced himself beside Thomas and, almost easily, the cannon moved back into place. He nodded to Thomas to hold it there while he began to add the extra lashing, breaking off to shout for more help. He had just crawled under the cannon and passed the end of the rope to Thomas when another wave struck. 'Hold on!' John Smith yelled, but it was too late. In the act of taking the rope, Thomas's hold had loosened. The force of the water swept him across the deck. 'I must be more careful next time,' he thought, groping for a support. He found he was in the scuppers; there was not a moment to spare if he wanted to save himself; then, in sheer disbelief, he felt himself falling, fast and far, for an endless moment before the burning cold water engulfed him. There would never be a next time. He had gone overboard.

John Smith moved quickly. There was a buckled harness and a coil of rope firmly secured to the deck, provided for eventualities like this, though to use it in such a storm might be madness. The boy had a family, had a father and mother. What did he, the captain, think he had been doing, letting an untrained boy like that take on a man's work in a storm, even for one moment? He would drown and it would be his, John Smith's, fault. John thought all this even before he heard the lookout in the crow's nest shout until his voice cracked, 'Man overboard!' and the mate, standing near the wheel, bellow, 'Stay your course! He's lost!' John buckled on the harness with wet, slippery fingers, then hailed Mate Dawkins to show him what he was doing. He heard a yell of 'No!' but by then was already backing up the slope of the deck to get the longest run possible. He sprinted to the side and leaped out with all his strength to make sure of getting clear of the hull before twisting into a diving position just as he plunged into the water.

Thomas came up and gulped air through his burning throat and nose, numbed with sea-water. 'Help!' he cried hopelessly. It was no use. They could never pick him up. So suddenly, so pointlessly, his life was going to be over, before he had done anything with it. And yet not suddenly, because he was swimming for his life. It would take him a long time to drown. All at once a darkness that had been hanging over him disappeared. The water all around was grey, silver with foam, although the waves towered so that he could hardly see the sky. Of course – he was no longer in the lee of the ship. It had left him behind. He would die alone, with hundreds of fathoms of ocean under him and the empty sky above ...

'_Hold on_,_ Thomas_:_ I've got you_!'

He was not alone. The voice was warmth, life itself: he could not imagine knowing a more blessed moment as long as he lived. A strong arm was around him. 'Take a deep breath,' said John Smith. 'We'll go under when they haul. Hold on to this. One hand. Fend off with the other when we get near the side. Now ...'

The rope pulled and they went under. Thomas heard the bursting silence and felt the pressure of the water on his face, on his lungs. He swung helpless; the pain of holding his breath was like a knife; he was choking, he could not last any longer. But he knew that the captain was still holding onto him, and felt perfect trust that he would be saved or that John Smith would drown too – which was unthinkable.

Then they broke the surface. There was air, wind, voices – 'Haul! Haul! Put your back into it!' A team of men were pulling in the rope hand over hand. Their faces loomed high above, over the black cliff of the hull. A wave swept John Smith and Thomas towards it. 'Pay out!' John Smith struggled to keep clear, and the men above, led by Lon, played the two of them like fish. Something splashed into the water beside them: a harness for Thomas. In the trough between two waves, the captain dropped it over his head, and succeeded in fastening the stiff and soaked buckle, while another wave nearly smashed them against the hull.

They were both floundering blindly, near exhaustion, when at last the men succeeded in pulling first Thomas, then the captain, clear of the water and up the side. Bruised against the hull, burned by the rope, they were caught in turn by outstretched hands and rolled over in the scuppers.

Thomas got up onto his hands and knees, coughing and retching. 'Eh, the lucky lad!' cried Ben, thumping him between the shoulders. John lay on his back, eyes closed, letting everything wash over him in a moment of overwhelming relief. Then he sat up and shook his head to clear it. 'Well, that was refreshing,' he heard himself say.

The men broke out in a cheer. 'Well done, captain!'

'Of course,' John added, breathing hard, and looking up at them with a forced smile, 'you'd all do the same for me.'

After a moment's pause came a laugh and an unconvincing chorus: 'Oh yes, surely we would!'

Just in the past few minutes the wind had eased noticeably, otherwise they would probably not have survived. John saw one of the men bring a miraculously dry blanket for Thomas and begin to help him take off his shirt and wrap himself up. He himself walked over to Mate Dawkins, wooden-faced and forty, who stared at him as he approached. 'Sorry,' said John.

'You lunatic,' said Dawkins pleasantly. 'Don't do it again. Not this voyage, anyway.'

'You're right. I'll think of something else to do.'

The mate punched John's arm. John winced; it was the one he had used to hold Thomas.

'All hands to the stern,' shouted John. When the men gathered round, he said, 'The wind's easing. Brown, Gresham, Macquarie and Cardon, check that those cannon are made fast. The rest of you, get some sail back on her. Just the lower mainsail and foresail. We can run before the wind. In half an hour you can go off watch and we'll have a measure of wine all round. And thank you all.'

He went over to where Thomas sat huddled in his blanket, very white and still. 'You can go below in a few minutes, Thomas,' he said, 'but not just yet. Mount the horse that threw you. Come on, you'd better move around a bit. Help me get this cannon tied down. Better late than never.'

'Thank you, sir. I'm sorry, sir,' said Thomas.

'No, I'm sorry,' said John. 'But not very sorry: we got away with it. What are you going to do in the New World?'

Thomas still felt sick and chilled to the bone, but a light-headed elation was beginning to take over. He was alive, he was holding a rope for the captain to tie, they were chatting like old friends. He let slip a dream that he had not spelled out to anyone before. 'I'm going to go exploring,' he bragged, 'chart all the rivers, find out what's inland, draw a great map, "The Discoverie of Virginia by Thomas Rowe" ... and if any Indian tries to stop me, I'll blast him!'

'Can I come too?' asked John. This was a man after his own heart. 'You do the map-making and I'll take care of the savages?'

'Think they'll give us much trouble?' called a sailor over his shoulder.

'Not half as much trouble as the captain'll give them!' cried Lon. He picked up a feather that was used to clean the cannons, stuck it in the head of a mop lying in the scuppers, and ducked behind a cannon. Another of the men gave a war whoop. Lon waved the mop and struck up:

'We'll kill ourselves an Injun,

Or maybe two or three:

We're strong and fierce and bold in the Virginia Company ...'

'Wine!' shouted the quartermaster from the stern.

The men crowded round, holding out their cups. The drink warmed them through, making them forget their wet, stiff clothes and cold, aching bodies. They were friends. The storm was over.

'Get below now,' said the captain to Thomas, leaning on the rail of the stern beside him. 'We've had the worst. Within a week or so we should be sighting the New World.'

'What do you suppose it'll look like?' murmured Thomas.

'Like all the others, I suppose,' said John Smith, looking out into the night, his hands clasped in front of him. 'I've seen dozens of new worlds, Thomas ... what could possibly be different about this one?'

Thomas felt a little dashed. For the first time he had an inkling that, although to have John Smith as your captain was the height of good fortune, actually to be John Smith might not be quite so wonderful. But he was too tired to give it much thought. His head swam as he climbed down the companion ladder. The hold was only ankle deep in water, lanterns were lit and swinging, and snores sounded louder than curses. No sooner had Thomas slung his hammock and climbed into it than he fell dreamlessly asleep.

The men dispersed. 'You get some sleep, too, John,' said Dawkins. 'I'll take over.'

'No, you go down and check things are all right below,' said John. 'Make sure everyone's accounted for. I'll stay here until you've finished.'

Left alone, he considered the incident. He felt his right shoulder; he had pulled something in it, but it would settle down. He had behaved like an idiot, that much was clear. Even though his old friend Dawkins had almost infinite patience with his foolhardiness, and was at least as well able to command the ship as John Smith himself, it had been an irresponsible thing to do as captain. The men would be saying that he was pushing his luck too far. And yet what else could he have done, once he had got the boy into that scrape? I must take better care of that boy, he thought. If anyone tries to take it out on him for what happened tonight, they'll be sorry. I got away with it, that's the main thing. Though I suppose Ratcliffe may have something to say when he finds out.

What possessed me to say that stupid thing, 'You'd all do the same for me?' Of course they wouldn't. No one has a right to expect it from anyone; to talk like that only puts their backs up and quite right, too.

John Smith was half conscious of the reason for his remark. He said such things every now and then because part of him wished that he could be just like the others: at any rate, that he could be an ordinary man who could walk around unnoticed, without having to deal with envy and admiration in equal measure from everyone he met; that he could try and see, maybe just for a day, how he would get on without the blond hair, without the impossible face, without the charm, without the recklessness. He had learned to make it all work for him, but sometimes he felt as if he had been left standing with a precious but troublesome burden that really belonged to someone else, and he was wasting his life trying to cope with it. He had never got over being uneasy about his looks. Of course when he first went to sea as a boy, after his parents were both dead, being so conspicuous had not always been an advantage: far from it. _Come up here, Goldilocks! Yes, you! What's your name, boy? Smith? John Smith? Couldn't you have picked a fancier name to go with that face? Well then, boys, what can Johnnie Smith do for us?_ ...

He realised that his mouth had tightened and his shoulders had tensed, and he shook himself. All that was well in the past. He was in charge now, and there would not be any bullying on _his_ ship. He could make sure that boys like Thomas got a good start. Energetic and fair-minded and with his family behind him to remind him who he was, a boy like that could grow to be a man of solid worth, a real leader and decider. The colony would need such men. To work for England in the wider world, to gather wealth, to pacify the savages, excellent aims all and he hoped that they would prosper.

By that time he, John Smith, would have moved on. For how long? Probably for ever. It was time he faced it, he himself was not solid. It was time he stopped looking for something over every horizon, not finding it, and then growing bitter because it wasn't there. It was there all right, but not for him. Perhaps for him there was only searching. Perhaps it was enough. It was late; it was time he got some sleep; when it grew light there would be endless trouble and complaints about the gear that would have got lost or damaged in the storm. But he stood for a good while longer holding the wheel, feeling the movement of the ship through his hands and bare feet and adjusting the steering as the deck swung and the wind blew strong and steady. This was what he was good at. Westward, westward... The clouds were clearing. He gazed out at the pale churning wake in the blue darkness of the summer night.

Somewhere ahead, people who did not know they were savages and a land they did not call Virginia lay waiting in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

24

Disclaimer: this is history as spun by Disney, with some added spin from me.

Here we get to the native Americans: I am afraid this chapter is a bit of an oil-and-water mixture of straight Disney with Pre-Literate Society Lite, but I hope it basically works. When I found out that the Powhatans had a matrilineal succession system, so that the ruler's own children stayed 'commoners' and were not in line for power, I thought it fitted surprisingly well with the way Disney presented Pocahontas as a person with privilege but a bit of an outsider, and with no dynastic importance to restrict her movements. So I used it.

CHAPTER 3

Chief Wahunsunacaw was the most respected man in all the forest lands of the Tenakomakah, the Tidewater. The headmen of villages for seven days' march in every direction followed his leadership in war and took his advice in peace. It had not always been so. When Wahunsunacaw took the headship of his village as a young man, his people, the Powhatans, had been divided, in danger of being engulfed by their arch-enemies to the south, the Massawomecks. Then, the Massawomecks had had a great chief with many brothers, each with his own following of warriors to satisfy. One by one the Powhatan villages bore the brunt of their raids; the people would flee to the forest, and return to find their crops ransacked and their houses destroyed. Every time it grew harder to find help from their neighbours. Warriors were killed, young children died, marriages were put off, the people grew fewer. The time came when they faced the possibility of complete destruction. The last few would become slaves; the rivers, rocks and sacred trees would no longer be given their right names in their own language, and the ancestral spirits, lacking sustenance from the living, would fade on the wind and die. The remnants of one or two villages had already joined hands and leaped from the cliffs rather than live to see the slow end, when Wahunsunacaw became chief – at a younger age than was usual, for his three elder brothers had already died in the wars or the sicknesses that followed from them.

Wahunsunacaw believed that the tide was about to turn. Their enemies' chief was old and could not much longer prevent quarrels breaking out among the Massawomecks themselves, while the Powhatans had nothing left to lose. By diplomacy, courage and cunning he was able to forge the remnants of his people into an alliance which, for the first time in years, beat the Massawomecks in battle and brought their simmering feuds to a head. That had been nearly a generation ago. Since then he had fought again and again, now against factions of the Massawomecks, now against other tribes inland and northward who tried to take advantage of their weakness. And now, with grey showing in his hair, he had just won the battle that made him the acknowledged leader of the whole ocean coast. He had prevented the tide from turning back: he had forced a young chief of the resurgent Massawomecks to accept his patronage, bringing the number of his dependent chiefs to a dozen, apart from lesser headmen. But it was peace he wanted, even more than victory, and he knew that he had accomplished his life's work. Even if his strength began to fail from this moment, it would take longer than his lifetime for the security of his own village and kindred to be worn away. So secure was he in the leadership of his people that they had begun to call him by the people's own name: he was Chief Powhatan.

His warriors returned from battle, gathering at Werowocomoco, the village of his birth, for feasting and celebration before dispersing to their scattered homes. The sight of their canoes, long announced, brought the women running in from the fields and the children from their games by the water. Powhatan stood in the prow of the leading canoe, carrying his staff of office and wearing his ceremonial headdress of eagle feathers; but so secure was he in his people's regard that he broke the dignity of a victorious chief by smiling to see his veterans take their children on their knees, and laughing when the promised wife of one of the young men threw herself on him just as he climbed out of his boat, landing them both in the water with a splash. He walked through the crowd on the riverbank looking at it as a farmer looks at flourishing rows of corn he has planted. He had good reason. The fine young men and the beautiful girls, the crowds of excited children, were there because of him. It would take more than a few lean years to destroy the Powhatans, with their gods and their spirits, now.

The shaman, Kekata, stood in front of the chief's longhouse to meet him. The two raised their hands in greeting, then briefly embraced. Kekata had been Powhatan's adviser from the beginning, and was now older than anyone else in the tribe could reckon, but still strong, and very wise.

For all his contentment, Powhatan's eyes had been searching since before he landed, and now he asked: 'Where is my daughter?'

'You know Pocahontas,' said Kekata indulgently. 'She has her mother's spirit; she goes where the wind takes her.'

It saddened Powhatan that she was not there to greet him. Since the girl's mother had died, Pocahontas was the living thing he loved best in the world. He cared for his present wife, his other children, his sister's sons and daughters who would be chiefs and bearers of chiefs after him, but there was no one like Pocahontas. He recognised and loved the strain of the wild wind in mother and daughter that assured him that their love was freely given. Yet he wished that Pocahontas had been there to smile at him when he came home.

*****

Pocahontas was miles away, standing, as she loved to do, in a high place. A cliff overlooked the Quiyoughcohannock river where it broadened ready to meet the great Tidewater; over this cliff fell a waterfall, and beside the head of the falls a rock hung almost in empty air. Pocahontas stood on it, turning a little now and then to feel the wind in her hair and try to understand, as she sometimes fancied she could, what the wind was saying. The water below was glassy-pale in the afternoon shadow of the cliffs. Far away towards the sea the dark green swells of the forest became a smoky blue. Pocahontas knew the land well; a complicated and beautiful tracery of its paths and waterways and meeting points filled her mind. But despite its familiarity, when she looked at it from above like this the blue distance held a promise of something unknown and yet to be revealed. Sometimes it almost choked her with excitement. Sometimes she felt sad, fearing that whatever was waiting there would grow tired of waiting for her, of being passed by on all her explorations, and would melt away in the morning mist and be gone. What could the something be, after all? What path she could choose in life could possibly fulfill a promise that was so piercingly sweet in itself?

The wind's voice was suddenly overlaid by another voice, haunted with distance, but human:

'_Pocahontas_!'

The caller left long spaces between the syllables of the name, but still the echoes from the cliffs blurred them together. Pocahontas looked down and saw a canoe far below, small as a tale of the distant past, yet bringing the call of familiarity.

Her friend Nakoma was shouting up to her. She strained to hear:

'_Your - fa- ther's – com-ing_! _Come - down - here_!'

Pocahontas's wistfulness suddenly dissolved in a smile of joy. 'He's back!' she said to the wind. '_Coming_!' she yelled over the edge. She turned and began to run, long-legged, down the trail, which was fringed with huckleberry bushes and barred by afternoon sunshine slanting between the trees. Then she considered the distance, changed her mind, turned round, and ran much faster back up to the rock. Without a pause she ran out along it, leaped, and dived towards the deep pool below the waterfall.

'No! Not that ... way,' Nakoma tailed off, watching helplessly with her hands to her mouth. She pushed her pang of fear aside with annoyance as she watched her friend plunge down, supremely confident, graceful as a swallow, to meet the water at a perfect angle and slip under with barely a splash. 'Show-off,' she muttered.

Pocahontas stayed under so long that her anxiety was re-awakened.

'Pocahontas! Are you all right?' she called, half standing and straining her eyes towards the spot where the girl had gone under.

'Pocahontas?'

Silence under the cliffs.

'Well, you better be all right,' declared Nakoma, sitting down and folding her arms, 'because I'm not coming in after you – _oo_!'

The canoe suddenly turned right over, plunging Nakoma under the water. She bobbed up beside it, spluttered, and saw Pocahontas in the shade of the canoe watching her, just the eyes; the rest of her, even her nose and mouth, was still under water.

'Don't you think we're getting a little old for these games?' Nakoma demanded, coughing and spitting.

At that, Pocahontas surfaced and blew a jet of water in her face before dissolving into giggles. Nakoma forgot her dignity and drenched her in turn with a raking splash, and for a while both girls sent water up in showers until they were so weak with laughing that they had to hang onto the side of the canoe if they were not to drown. There they floated, kicking their legs in the cold, light river water and feeling little fish nibbling their toes.

'Come on, help me get this thing turned over,' said Nakoma at last. They clambered in. Nakoma reached for the paddle while Pocahontas wrung water out of her long, loose hair.

'What were you doing up there, anyway?' asked Nakoma.

'Thinking.'

'About the dream again?' Nakoma's interest was slightly anxious. She and Pocahontas were the only two girls in the village who had come of age together in their year, and they had always exchanged confidences. Nakoma dearly loved to interpret dreams, eye the young men and compare their prowess, and gossip about matchmaking; she no longer felt quite easy with Pocahontas, who had recently become moody and quiet, and took some things too lightly and others much too seriously. But here was a hope of renewed intimacy, and she pursued the matter: 'Do you think you understand it yet?'

'I know it means something,' said Pocahontas testily, 'I just don't know what.'

'You should ask your father,' suggested Nakoma, who could not see why a girl with a father as wise and famous as Pocahontas's should lack an answer to any question in the world.

Pocahontas lent the idea serious attention, but as if she had not thought of it herself, which also surprised Nakoma.

By the time they had paddled the canoe upstream to the confluence with their home river, carried it round the rapids, and launched it again for the last stretch up to the village, afternoon was becoming evening. The smell of smoke blew out to meet them at the landing-place as game and corn that the men had captured from the enemy roasted for the night's feasting. The note of a drum sounded from the meeting-place at the centre of the village, an oval open space set about with carved wooden pillars. In and around it the whole village was already gathered. The two girls sidled up to the edge of the crowd. To the beat of the drum, the chief was telling the story of the battle, calling the warriors who had distinguished themselves to stand around him.

A bull-necked young man was at his side. '...none so bravely as Kocoum,' the girls heard Powhatan say, 'for he attacked with the fierce strength of the bear, destroying every enemy in his path ...'

Kekata, a dish of red ochre paint in his hand, pressed his knuckles into it and then pressed them on Kocoum's chest, once on each side, leaving the paw prints of a bear plain to be seen.

'He has proved himself in this battle ...'

'Oh, he's so handsome!' breathed Nakoma to Pocahontas as the girls still stood unnoticed.

'I especially love the smile,' returned Pocahontas, in a voice not so low as to disguise its cutting edge, as Kocoum looked impassively out over the villagers' heads. Nakoma shrugged in annoyance. Of course, Kocoum was Pocahontas's cousin, so she could not be expected to be very excited about him; but there was no pleasing her these days. At that moment, however, Powhatan glimpsed his daughter, and in the middle of his recital flashed her a smile of greeting that made him look like a young man. Nakoma had to admit that there was a difference.

Pocahontas could not speak with her father that evening. They embraced quickly when the victory recital and chants broke up into general feasting, but Powhatan had to take the place of honour among the men and Pocahontas to join the women and make sure that the guests had all they needed. She now wished that she had come back earlier, so that they could have had a little time together before the feast began. She had begun to worry about him. Of course she could not tell him so.

The warriors were tearing into their roasted joints of venison; Pocahontas and the other girls passed along gracefully to hand them drink and cornbread. The most important women, too, were served: the chief's wife, a pretty, doe-eyed young girl, and, even before her, the chief's sister, Nijlon, sleek and smooth-haired, surrounded by her younger children, solemn little creatures polished like soapstone carvings. Her eldest son was expected to be the next chief, for although power was wielded by the spear, it was passed on through the womb. Nijlon was looking discontented; she had not liked to see Kocoum singled out for the chief's praise. He, too, was a royal kinsman, the son of her aunt, who also sat there. But Aunt Sukanon had suffered the disgrace of being taken hostage by the Massowomecks, and coming back with a little boy who was the son of the enemy. Nijlon had stayed in her village, and a respectable succession of allied chiefs and younger brothers, important but not too important, had come to her. She had no doubt that her children were the chief's true heirs.

When everyone was served, Pocahontas sat down cross-legged, more than ready for her own food. But her eyes were drawn to the sombre group of men and boys still standing a little apart from the ring of feasters. They were the hostages who had been taken from the Massowomecks to compel them to keep the peace. It was their food that the Powhatans were eating with triumph and laughter, but they got none as yet. They had been driven on ahead of the returning soldiers with no rest; two or three of the young boys were weak and fainting, and the men held them upright as best they could; if any slipped to the ground, the Powhatans threw bones, jeered and kicked them back to their feet.

Pocahontas could not join in the boisterous laughter of the other wives and girls, showing the captives their place. She knew that as the evening went on, and the people's battle-wrath wore off, first one family and then another would almost surreptitiously throw or pass food to the hostages, then come closer, clap some man or boy on the shoulder and claim him as their temporary kin, to take him into their home and vouch for him as long as he remained prisoner; until he was redeemed and went home, or stayed so long he was adopted into the tribe, or until his life was forfeit. Mercy would come, but until it did, Pocahontas could barely swallow her food. This was one of the things that made it hardest for her to feel at one with her people, and, if the truth be known, why she had lingered on the cliffs and almost come late to the victory feast.

At least no one's life was forfeit tonight. Those were the terrible times: when defeated chiefs showed treachery, or when there was some prisoner whom nobody wanted, or who had killed someone whose kin demanded vengeance. At the end of the night, when sunrise approached, such a man would be taken to the high cliff above the village where all the tidewater could be seen, where only men were allowed to go, and the chief would sacrifice him to the gods. Pocahontas tried not to think about this part of her father's task. She knew how to use a hunting knife and shoot with a bow; she could imagine killing a man in battle-frenzy, when it was his life or yours and your friends' that must be lost. But to beat out a life that lay helpless at your feet, that was a different matter. She knew that her father could do it only when he had passed deep into the power of the gods, so that it was their anger that struck the blow, not his own. She had seen his face when he came back from such journeys, and noticed how he would not speak to anyone he loved for hours afterwards, until the madness had passed. She was very glad that it did not have to be tonight.

And at last the joy of the feast swept everyone up; even the prisoners had their hunger and weariness eased. Drums and flutes began to play, and people got up to dance. The men did the victory dance, leaping and twisting to shrieks of acclaim from the women. Then the young women danced for the men, Pocahontas in the lead. She flung aside all her doubts as she joined hands with the other girls and swayed back and forward in their line. To dip and turn and balance with measured grace, to let your body say to the warriors: you kept our honour for us, and thus we present it to you; to be one with the feast, the music, the force of life itself: this was almost the best thing in the world. As she passed the row of young men, tossing her hair out of her eyes in the firelight, she noticed Kocoum. Several of his friends were standing around chaffing him, raising cups to his triumph, and a little further off a number of excited small boys were leaping about hoping to be noticed, but he did not seem even to realise that they were there. Could he be looking at her? For a moment she met a flashing glance from his eyes. Abashed, she looked down, hoping she was not dancing too forwardly. When she glanced at Kocoum again, he was gazing into the distance more abstractedly than ever.

It stayed in her mind because of what she found out later. The children mostly fell asleep where they sat at about midnight and were carried indoors by their mothers, but it was nearer dawn than dusk by the time all the men had found places in the longhouse or around the fires and were snoring under their cloaks. Pocahontas had gone to sleep in the small hut adjoining the chief's residence, where she lived. She woke up in the grey morning when her raccoon came to see her. In the woods, she sometimes rescued young animals that had lost their mothers, and sometimes sat still and quiet long enough to coax the wild ones to keep her company: she liked their silence, their mischief, the fact that they only came when they really wanted to be with her and not because they felt they ought to. She had given this raccoon the name Meeko. He lived in a great willow-tree down the river, but came to her when he wanted extra food. She heard him slither down through the smoke-hole and hop from rafter to rafter until he was directly above her bed of willow branches, then drop neatly down beside her. His head pushed itself under her hand.

Pocahontas decided to get up; she would not sleep any more. She stood combing her hair, now and then nudging Meeko out of the way as he hung round her neck. The skin hanging over the doorway of the hut twitched at the corner and a voice said, 'Daughter?'

'_Wingapo_, Father,' cried Pocahontas and ran to the doorway, dragging the skin aside to let him in quickly. Meeko escaped to the rafters.

Powhatan threw his arms around her. 'I'm so glad you're back safely,' murmured Pocahontas, leaning her head on his chest.

He kissed the top of her head, then held her away from him and stroked her hair back from her forehead. 'So am I,' he said. 'Now we can remember what life is really for, for a while.'

He stepped back from her. He was still wearing his long cloak and his eagle headdress. Plainly he had not slept at all; his face was tired. Now, however, he took the headdress off and laid it on one of the roof beams. 'Some of the warriors will be leaving at sunrise,' he said, 'and I must be there to say farewell. But there is time for us to talk first. I want to know everything you have been doing.'

Pocahontas decided to plunge straight in. 'Father, for many weeks now a strange dream has been coming to me. I think it's telling me something is about to happen: something that stirs me ...'

To her surprise, Powhatan looked gratified. He said gently, with slight self-consciousness, turning half away from her, 'Yes: something is about to happen.'

'What is it?' she asked with relief. Might the answer to her questions be quite simple for him?

'Kocoum has asked to seek your hand in marriage,' said Powhatan, turning to face Pocahontas fully again.

She was dumbfounded.

'Marry Kocoum?' she said after a moment's pause – not in indignation, or distaste, but more as if the two words were completely unrelated and she could not believe that her father had really meant to do anything so strange as to speak them in the same breath.

'I told him it would make my heart glad,' he said, taking her by the shoulders, showing the beginnings of distress that she did not view the prospect with quite as much delight as he did.

Pocahontas groped for words. 'But he's so … _serious_,' she said lamely. It was not what she meant. How to explain something so obvious, something that her father, of all people, should have known in his bones?

But it seemed that he, too, felt surprise at having to explain to her. 'My daughter, this is the best offer you can have. You know my rank does not pass down to you, and your mother's kin are all dead. Kocoum is of royal blood, and will give you the standing you deserve; he is brave and loyal and will build you a good house with sturdy walls. No harm will come to you with him.'

'Father, I think my dream is pointing me down a different path …' began Pocahontas, but Powhatan cut her off. 'This _is _the right path for you,' he said with decision.

'But why can't I choose …' Pocahontas objected. Just then, the raccoon, who had been scampering about in the rafters, tumbled into her arms. She could not suppress a giggle; then, all at once feeling ashamed of herself, she straightened her face and looked up at her father, who was gazing at her, not exactly impatiently, but with a slight tightness around his mouth.

He drew in his breath. 'Come with me,' he said, and put his arm round her shoulder. Together they walked out of the hut and down a path past tall trees, dripping with dew, to the edge of the river. Meeko trotted along behind. Pocahontas's bare feet tingled in the morning cold.

'I love to see you carefree,' said Powhatan gently. 'But I will not be here for ever. You are brave and wise too, and I want you to be placed where those good things in you will have proper use, not be swept aside.' Pocahontas knew, without being told, that it was the chief's sister who might sweep her aside, if Powhatan died. 'Even the wild mountain stream must one day join the great river,' he went on. 'And however proud and strong the river is, he will always choose the smoothest course. You have to learn to be steady – as the river is steady…'

They were both silent for a minute, gazing at the flowing water. Then he turned to her and held something up. It was a necklace made of joined plaques of smooth gleaming mother-of-pearl, with a delicate white shell hanging in the centre. 'Your mother wore this at our wedding,' said Powhatan, and clasped it round Pocahontas's neck. 'It was her dream to see you wear it at your own.' He stood back from her with his head on one side. 'It suits you,' he said, with the smile that hid the deep lines in his cheeks for a moment.

_Do you think Mother would have married Kocoum_? The question was burning on Pocahontas's lips, but as she looked into his face she could not ask it.

He took her hand and pressed it, and as she still stood silent he walked slowly away from her, back up the path towards the longhouse and the fire.

Pocahontas sank down in the grass, still gazing at the river, in confusion. Her father had kindly left her alone to think about it. Think about it! What he said was so right and reasonable, yet it turned the world upside-down. Her thoughts tried to get a purchase somewhere on his words, to rebuild a frame of her own to set them it.

'He wants me to be steady like the river,' she said aloud. Grey and transparent in the dawn light, it rolled ceaselessly past. Then, all of a sudden, right beside the landing-place where the canoes were beached, up bobbed the sleek dark bodies of a pair of otters. They twirled in the water and for a moment their clever faces grinned at Pocahontas, barely a canoe's length away, before they dived again and vanished.

'But it's not steady at all!' she said triumphantly.

She knew what she needed to do next. She caught hold of the end of her own canoe and pushed it off, feeling the pebbles of the riverbed shifting under her toes; she jumped in, seized the paddle, tucked her wet feet under her to warm them up, and floated off downstream.


	4. Chapter 4

29

Disclaimer: these characters and story belong to the Disney Corporation.

Please review, even if just a word – if I don't hear anything I'll think you've all got bored of being sandbagged with this and have stopped reading, and then I won't post any more.

CHAPTER 4

Her heart eased as the familiar rhythm of the paddle absorbed her energy and the tapping of water under the prow brought its usual exhilaration. To be out on the water in the cloudy dawn – it must be nearly sunrise now, but the light was still cool and grey – was almost pure happiness. She gave every stroke full consideration, digging and trailing the paddle judiciously to stay in the middle of the current. The two otters played and wove in and out just in front of her until they reached the limits of their territory. She swept round a bend and the air was suddenly full of beating white wings as she disturbed a crowd of gulls that had been roosting on the water.

'Steady!' she thought. 'The river's always changing: you never know what is going to be around the next bend.'

Her thoughts were still disconnected, but at least now they bobbed up freely, like the ripples in the morning wind.

'No harm will come to you!' she thought. 'Is that what you think matters to me, Father? Was that what mattered to you and Mother, in the old days? Oh, Father, are you becoming an old man? How can you think I'd settle for so little?'

She dug in her paddle viciously and only then realised how angry she was with her father. He had said, 'I want to know everything you have been doing,' and then, instead of listening, he had only talked. He had not been in the least interested in the dream that was so important to her; all he had wanted to do was make her accept the future that he had planned out for her – he who had known all his life that you cannot plan the future.

She paddled across a wide pool, past the dams of beavers. A buck-toothed male, waddling across from the bank with a mouthful of sticks, paused with an air of absurd self-importance to watch her go by. 'Sturdy walls!' she thought. 'If that was all I wanted, I might as well marry one of those!' She giggled to herself at the thought of Kocoum's solemnity, then felt sorry. He wasn't as bad as all that. Still – _marry_ him? She knew full well that her father had the right to force her to if he so decided. She knew equally well that he would not. But why must she rely on his forbearance? Where was his understanding?

The banks grew high and rocky as she neared the narrow, fast stretch just before the home river joined the Quiyoughcohannock. Where a curtain of water fell from overhanging rocks she steered the canoe behind it, nudging up to the cool, mossy stones while a silver rain kept her secret from the outside world. She was tempted to hold the canoe there for a while, but her anger got the better of her again and she veered out with two big sweeps of the paddle, straight for the rapids.

They began with a sloping fall of three times a man's height. She laughed triumphantly as the canoe stood on end and then shot out into the boiling white water. Soaked through, shaking water out of her eyes, she shifted her balance and watched for her moment to flick the paddle, first on one side and then on the other, to take the narrow way between jagged rocks and glassy water with a ruff of foam which showed that rocks lay just under the surface. She counted to herself to help with the rhythm. It was just like dancing, with the water for your partner, except that if you made a split-second's mistake you died. No one would shoot these rapids except a few of the most daring young men, when all their peers were watching. Everyone else carried the canoes around. No one knew that Pocahontas did it, not even her father. Did he know that it had been her mother who had showed her how?

Without breaking her concentration on the water, she allowed bright angry thoughts to flicker through her tensed mind. He might not know that, but he knew that his wife had defied her own father, an old headman who had thought that Powhatan would come to nothing, and had run away to marry him. Powhatan had told Pocahontas of the day when the Massawomecks hunted them through the forest and his wife had covered their retreat with her bow and brought down five enemy warriors while he carried a wounded friend to safety. He had told her many other stories of the same kind, and yet now he thought that she, her mother's daughter, needed a Kocoum to look after her. Powhatan's love and the dire straits of her people had saved her mother, in her lifetime, from having to be an ordinary wife. And of course, now that she was dead, her deeds could be ascribed to some singular spirit and kept safely in the past, as marvels, not as examples – thought Pocahontas, bitterly. But to find her father himself doing it ...!

And the necklace. The necklace her mother had risked everything to wear – he was using it as a bauble to coax a child. Pocahontas almost wanted to tear it off. The knowledge that she had, in fact, behaved like a child did not improve her temper.

The banks grew lower and the whirling race of the water began to slow down. The confluence was near. A little way ahead the river grew broader, with backwaters meandering between large marshy islands fringed with reeds and covered with willow trees. After its headlong race, the water needed to rest.

Perhaps things are different now, thought Pocahontas. Perhaps Mother would have behaved differently if she had lived in a time of peace, like this. Maybe my dreams are out of place; maybe I need to take root like these trees and live in tranquillity. Should I marry Kocoum?

Kocoum, she knew, would not want his wife to shoot the rapids and dive over waterfalls. He always did what was proper, even to visiting his mother exactly the number of times in a moon that were expected of him; Pocahontas had always slightly despised him for it. As his wife, she would have to learn to be like the others: learn all the nuances of the game that bored her so, the endless game of rank among the village women, edging in front or behind through their husbands' standing and the number of their children, the baskets they wove, the feasts they gave, the firmness with which they maintained order and respectability ... Was this the best offering she could make to her people now? Was this the price for being free from the terrified flights at midnight, the red flames in the corn?

She had to ask.

*****

She steered the canoe along a winding stream that narrowed until she could almost touch both banks at once. The leaves grew so thickly overhead that it was almost dark: long trailing strands of willow leaves patterned like braided hair, or a herringbone border on a tunic, dipped in the water, waved gently in the breeze, met behind her after she had pushed them out of the way and nosed the boat between them. The water was dark and clear between rafts of floating yellow leaves. At last she climbed out onto the bank and pulled up the canoe among huge, gnarled roots in front of the largest willow tree of all. Its main bole, thicker around than three men's arms could reach, was hollow, and a trunk in front of it had been burned and lopped perhaps a hundred years before and stood as high as Pocahontas's chest, a flat-topped, blackened stump. But green life still spread through the branches for many yards around. Birds of all kinds, squirrels, racoons, chipmunks and hundreds of smaller creatures scampered, hid, and breathed the safe air of the great, embracing tree.

Pocahontas had made no sound for a long time, but now she found that even her thoughts had become hushed. Good: that was the right way to approach Grandmother Willow. Sometimes she had come here idly and got no answer to her call except a silvery, mocking rustle of leaves. But today the tree seemed to welcome her before she had even spoken. The shadowy face of knobs and fissures in the trunk smiled, and the creaking old voice said, 'Is that my Pocahontas?'

Pocahontas swung herself up onto the stump and sat back on her heels. 'Grandmother Willow! I need to talk to you.'

'Good,' said the voice. 'I was hoping you'd visit today. Ah!' Pocahontas felt a shock, a stirring of interest right down into the roots of the tree beneath her. 'Your mother's necklace!'

'Yes,' said Pocahontas, touching the white shell. 'That was what I wanted to talk to you about... My father came back yesterday and he wants me to marry Kocoum.'

'Kocoum? But he's so _serious_.'

Pocahontas often could not be quite sure that what she heard was the voice of Grandmother Willow and not the thoughts in her own mind – but there was no mistaking the conspiratorial, teasing note of the reply.

'I know,' she said hollowly. 'Father thinks it's the right path for me. But lately I've been having a dream, and ...'

'Oh, a dream!' It seemed to Pocahontas that even the little creatures in the willow-branches skittered and rustled in expectation. 'Let's hear all about it!'

'Well,' began Pocahontas and closed her eyes to see the dream-pictures more clearly. 'I'm running through the forest and suddenly, there in front of me, is an arrow. As I look at it, it starts to spin.'

'A spinning arrow? How unusual!'

'Yes ... It spins and spins, faster and faster, and then, suddenly, it stops.'

'Hmmm.' Grandmother Willow paused, waiting to be sure that Pocahontas had finished. 'Well. It seems to me that this spinning arrow is pointing you down your path.'

That much was easy, surely. 'But, Grandmother Willow, what is my path? How am I ever going to find it?'

Grandmother Willow gave her ancient, unhurried smile. 'Your mother asked me the very same question.'

'And what did you say to her?' Pocahontas asked with a trace of impatience.

'I told her to listen! ... All around you are spirits, my child. They live in the air, in the water, under the earth. If you listen to them, they will guide you.'

'But I do listen, Grandmother! All the time! I know they're telling me to look for something, but I don't know where to find it! I'm afraid of missing my path: suddenly I'll have gone too far for the turning.'

'I think not, my child. I think that for you, it will be clear when it comes. Be patient. The arrow has to stop spinning: the moment has to come. Unless everything in you points to your path, wait, go on waiting ... But something tells me that it will come soon. Listen. Listen now. What do you hear?'

Pocahontas closed her eyes again and concentrated.

'I hear the wind.' The morning wind was rising, stirring in the branches, carrying away the little sounds of the forest creatures.

'What is it saying?'

'... I don't understand.'

Grandmother Willow's branches creaked and crooned softly in the breeze. She seemed to sing, almost too soft to hear:

'Listen with your heart:

You will understand.'

Eyes closed, Pocahontas felt the world fade from around her and the steps of her mind slow down until she thought that she must be about to fall asleep. Then she heard the note of the wind again, and shivered suddenly, for she was aware that this was no longer the wind's sound, but the wind's voice – the voice in which that great spirit spoke its heart. Although the wind was light, the voice seemed to rise like the beginnings of a storm with the menace of what it was bringing.

'It says something's coming,' Pocahontas called out loudly. The sound of her own voice startled her. She opened her eyes and was looking up at the patches of sky between the leaves. She knew that the sky was grey, but now it looked dark blue, with only the feathery edges of storm clouds creeping up in it, blue on blue, air writhing and twisting in air –

'Strange clouds,' Pocahontas heard herself say.

She had not thought the words: they had been spoken through her. Awed, she gazed around her, suddenly back in the waking world, and was possessed by a sense of urgency. She must see what was in the sky. There might not be a moment to lose. The note of the wind really had risen and the branches were tossing. Pocahontas scrambled from the stump to the main trunk of the tree, then swarmed up a branch until she could look out over the forest canopy. It was a rippling sea of green leaves, beautiful and impenetrable, more secretive than the real sea that lay beyond it.

'What do you see?' came the wind-tossed voice of Grandmother Willow from below.

'Clouds,' replied Pocahontas wonderingly.

They showed above the tree-tops near the mouth of the river, grey-white, moving at the speed of the wind, but purposefully ... pointed like wings ... and what were the dark slender trees that seemed to move along with them? Why, as she could just make out, were seagulls attending them, in dark breaking skeins in front and behind?

'Strange clouds.'


	5. Chapter 5

39

CHAPTER 5

Silently the men lined the rail to look at the land. Morning mist was still smoking off the surface of the river and the forested slopes, placing screens of greyness and mystery between one range of treetops and the next. At the water's edge marched endless ranks of trees, rough-barked pine and red cedar, their trunks emerging like pillars from the shadows and fading into them again, never changing, never quite the same.

Everyone was awed; no one spoke. There was no sound except the noises made by the ship and the voices of the men who were taking soundings and carefully trimming the sails. Even they called out no louder than was strictly necessary.

'Can you believe it?' muttered Ben Macquarie, standing next to Thomas.

'It's all ours,' breathed Thomas.

After so many weeks of flat horizons, the mere sight of the trees hemming them in so closely made Thomas feel giddy. The trees alone were menacing, aside from any threat they might conceal. Yet they were beautiful. The smells of land drifting towards him, of rotting leaves and seaweed drying on stones, intoxicated him. The forest, huge and luxuriant, seemed to reach back to the dawn of time. He felt, dimly, like a tiny child taking its first steps alone into the great, mysterious world.

Yet, looking round at the faces of those who stood near him, he wondered if he was mad to feel this way. Some of the men looked gloomy, others eager for the voyage to be over, but everyone looked afraid. Everyone except John Smith. Giving tiny nudges to the wheel and directing the men by hand and voice like a bandmaster with several groups of musicians, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

Thomas wondered if Governor Ratcliffe was looking at the tree-lined shore from the window of his cabin just below, and whether _he_ was afraid.

The largest treeless space they had seen yet opened out before them on the left bank of the estuary. There was a narrow beach of boulders bounded by a cliff only a few feet high, and then a hummocky, grassy meadow some hundred yards wide. At one end of it a stream emerged from the trees and wound its way in a silted bed down to the water.

'Here?' Captain Smith called to the sounder.

'Five and a half fathom. Mud.'

'Go in a bit closer. Free off ... slowly ... now?'

The lead splashed.

'Four and a half.'

'Stop! Bring her head to wind... Drop the anchor!'

The chain paid out, hissing and rattling. The ship swung, steadied, and came to rest, bows upstream; the falling tide flowed past more slowly than before.

Ben let out a long breath. 'Well – here we are, then!' he murmured to Thomas.

'Virginia!' returned Thomas gleefully.

*****

Pocahontas ran, climbed and crept through the trees along the river, heading downstream, keeping well back from the shore but every now and then peering cautiously between the branches to the pale water. At last, when she had gone perhaps a couple of miles, she caught sight of the strange object that had seemed to be carrying the clouds. It was standing still, out on the water. The clouds were gone but it was clearly the same thing: unreal as a child's nightmare, a canoe bigger than a chief's longhouse, breasting the water like a new island. It was frightening, but its shape was beautiful. Of all things that might have happened in answer to her dream, Pocahontas had never imagined anything like this. Had it really anything to do with her dream at all? Why should something so completely new be addressed to her, rather than anyone else? It certainly concerned the whole people and she knew that she should go home as fast as possible to warn the village, but still she lingered, in case something did happen which she, especially, was chosen to understand.

She wondered if it was a visitation of gods or spirits, but knew in her heart that it was not. Gods would become visible through the clouds, the rocks or the trees where they had always been worshipped. Something as bizarre, yet as real and tangible as this had to be the work of men. But what men?

The question was soon answered. From the ship, a boat of a more usual size and shape was coming to shore. She craned between the branches to see. It was coming to the field of the old village – there had been a village of her people there before she was born, but it had been destroyed in a raid and all the inhabitants had died; it was a sacred but unlucky place, and would have to be left for many years before anyone could make a home there again. She herself was afraid to go any closer in case she angered the spirits, but she had to see what would happen. In such a special case, they might forgive her. Murmuring a protective charm, she edged closer to the shore at one end of the meadow where the cliff was higher. Here a slaty headland projected into the river from the level of the forest. She took cover among dense bushes at the shore end of the headland, screened also by the branches of trees that grew lower down the cliff and almost on the beach itself, and peered over the edge.

The men – six, seven – were getting out of their boat and landing. Pocahontas gave a shiver of repugnance. Never had she seen such ill-assorted figures as these. It was not what she had expected, when there was so much beauty in the vessel that had brought them.

Each one was different from the others, in shape, size and colour, as if each was a carving that had turned out wrong in a different way. They wore bulky clothes all over that made them look misshapen, and they had strange hard-looking headdresses, pointed at the front and back. Their skins, she noticed, were pale, like fallen leaves whose colour has been leached out by the rain. They had hair on their faces as well as on their heads, and in none of them was it an ordinary black: it, too, was pale, in dull shades of dun or fox-colour, and one man's hair was yellow like kernels of ripe corn. Pocahontas looked more sharply at the man with the yellow hair, which was the first thing about any of them to strike her as attractive. He was tall and well-made under his odd clothes, and seemed to be in command. She faintly heard him speaking, in a language with sounds so strange that she could not have repeated them even immediately afterwards. He pointed the others this way and that; they scattered across the beach and meadow.

They behaved in a strange and impious way. Strangers landing on an unknown shore should first declare themselves to the spirits of the place and make an offering, and then call to make themselves known to the people, before exploring or taking anything. These men did no such thing. They shouted, but only to one another, with the bravado and familiarity of trespassing children. They scrambled up the bank, kicked the soil and looked at it. They went to the stream and drank of the water, then spat. They seemed to argue over the berries on a clump of bushes growing in the middle of the clearing before eating some. (Pocahontas's hand moved carefully between her mouth and a berry-bush next to her hiding-place; that was all the food she was going to get before noon, clearly.) And then – her throat suddenly tightened on the mouthful she was swallowing – they noticed the burned and almost buried remains of the old village, went right up to them and stood there talking and stirring the stumps of posts and wattle with their feet. Nothing happened to make the men look frightened, beyond the suspicious glances they had been casting around them ever since they landed.

Pocahontas was disgusted. These men were animals – prowling and pecking around with no more idea how to behave than carrion-birds. Even the spirits of the dead despised them too much to punish them. She almost wanted to take a stick, shout aloud and drive them off. But although she was not afraid, she was aware of her danger and stayed hidden. Some of the men were coming close to her now. Their faces were as strange as the rest of them, with unnaturally wide, staring eyes.

She started, and shrank deeper into the undergrowth. One man had taken a running leap into one of the trees growing at the base of the headland, and was climbing up. His head and arms, then the rest of him, came into sight only a few yards away from her, on the far side of a flat-topped rock. It was the man with yellow hair. She saw his face for a moment before he turned – shifting one hand at a time and kicking his feet firmly into their holds – to look out over the beach and the land. That face made sense. Suddenly she saw what these men could be – what their faces were supposed to look like. And now she really was afraid, although she could not tell why.

'You spotted anything, Captain?' shouted one of the men from below.

'Just taking a look,' John Smith replied.

He tipped his helmet off his head to hang down his back and let his hair blow loose in the wind. The air tasted like cool well-water. He scanned the horizon, feeling the springy, earth-rooted movement of the tree under him. Trees reached as far as the eye could see. Where the near horizon dipped and a sweep of further land showed blue in the gap, there were tiny notches on the further horizon: the forest was still there. Never had he seen such a land: remote, untouched, unknown – yet not completely strange. The trees were of kinds he had seen at home. The blue distance reminded him of something he had once known, at the extreme edge of memory. To come here was like being offered his life over again from the beginning, with larger, ampler materials from which to build it.

So they did have some sense of what was proper, thought Pocahontas. By the tilt of the man's head and his two outstretched hands against the branches, she knew he was speaking and listening to the spirits, drinking in the holiness of the place. She raised her head a little to see better, and at that moment he turned round. In a sudden rush of fear, she ducked under cover again. She must not be seen, above all not by this man.

He had turned because her raccoon, having followed her at his leisure down the shore from the willow-glade, had trotted out onto the rock close to him. The raccoon saw no reason at all to be afraid of the strange visitors: more people meant nothing but another source of food.

The man looked at the raccoon curiously, as if he had never seen one before. He crouched down, and gently reached out a hand in Meeko's direction. She thought she heard him say something in a low, amused voice. She shrank back. But just then one of the man's companions shouted impatiently to him from below and, after standing undecided for a moment, he called back and turned to climb down the tree. He disappeared from sight, then reappeared further away on the beach with the others, heading back towards their boat.

Pocahontas drew a long breath of relief. He had saluted the spirits; she thought the better of him for it; but she was glad he was going away. Perhaps now their huge boat would move on, further up the river or back out to the open sea, and her task of watching would be over. She had better watch a while longer to make sure. But the strange clouds did not reappear; the ship stayed where it was. Morning went on, the day grew warm and close, and at length, while Pocahontas still watched, boats put out from the ship again: more boats, bringing more men and tackle ashore. They meant to stay.

* ****

Sir John Ratcliffe paused with a piece of candied fruit half way to his lips when he heard the quick feet coming down the steps to his cabin door. As usual, John Smith gave only the most perfunctory knock before he entered – burst in, one might almost say, bringing with him his usual irritating air of decision and vitality. The governor had not even spoken his question before it was answered:

'It'll do, Governor! The water's good, the ground's high enough – soil looks all right – and there's deep water right by the shore just past the clearing where we can pull her in to unload.'

'Good ... Any sign of natives?'

'Some ruined huts, nothing more. But they can't be far away. We must try to make ourselves known to them as soon as possible.'

'As I said, I leave that matter in your hands. The one thing that concerns me is that they do not impede our mission.'

'Yes, Governor. That's understood.'

'Very well, then. Give the order.'

'Already done, sir. The crew are mustered and ready to land, but I thought you might like to speak to them first: easier now than when we're ashore.'

'To be sure, Captain Smith. I shall join you in a few minutes. Is that all?'

'One thing, sir. Some of the men have fever and they are all hungry: they need to save their strength. I've told them they may be excused from standing while you address them. Is that in order?'

Ratcliffe pursed his lips and exhaled impatiently. 'Yes, Captain,' he said deliberately.

'Thank you, sir,' said John Smith, unruffled.

'Very well. On the after-deck in five minutes.' He motioned to Wiggins to close the door behind Captain Smith as he left.

He absent-mindedly rolled up a chart that was lying on the table, and then went and stood in front of his looking-glass. Wiggins came up quietly and began to help him fasten on his sword-belt.

'The men like Smith, don't they?' he said to Wiggins.

'It seems so, sir,' said the servant non-committally and tightened the buckle behind Ratcliffe's back.

Ratcliffe said no more. He drained the wine-cup that had been standing on the table. Wiggins brushed and straightened his wide, lace-edged collar.

Popularity. Easy for a here-today, gone-tomorrow captain - a man who came from nowhere and was at home everywhere. How they annoyed him, these blue-eyed, self-sufficient soldiers, who thought that risking their necks and eating mouldy biscuit with their rabble made them men of substance – the equals of someone like himself. What did they know of the demands of rank? Of the cold eyes of ancestors and cousins, the chill wind in inherited halls and fields? What did they know of the intrigues at court, where lies were the air you breathed and betrayal was the bread you ate? It had to be so: at the seat of power, where real decisions were made, it was never any different. Popularity, in such a setting, was despicable. Only men who did not count were popular; men who had so far forgotten any aims and loyalties they had ever had that any wind could blow them about.

John Smith clearly did not count. Then why not forget him? Simply use him – for he was a useful man? Ratcliffe admitted to himself that his own trouble was that although he had learned the game of power as thoroughly as any man, it had not worked for him. Time after time he had made his moves in exemplary fashion and waited for the expected outcome in vain. The fruits of favour had not tumbled into his lap. This Virginia expedition, now, was a route to glory, but a hard and risky one; a throw he need never have made if his earlier plans had succeeded as they might have done for other men. His failures threw his whole way of life into doubt, to the point where he could be ruffled by any self-confident whipper-snapper like this Smith.

The more important it was to succeed this time. He must be all-seeing, firm, and ruthless. No one was going to filch the credit for building the Virginia colony. It would belong to John Ratcliffe. He was ready.

John Smith felt uneasy as he climbed back on deck. He had joined this expedition convinced of Governor Ratcliffe's ability and resolution. Nothing had yet happened to change his mind on that score. At first he had not minded the governor's chilly manner. At the beginning of their acquaintance it was natural and proper. However, by now – at the end of a ten-week voyage, during which Smith had reported to Ratcliffe every day –one might have expected him to unbend a little and no longer to be constantly reminding Smith that his place was perhaps a little higher than a servant's, but not much.

The reason, or one reason, was clear. John Smith tried not to let it irritate him but it was difficult. For heaven's sake, he thought impatiently, why must I put up with this all the time? Look at him. He is much older than I am; he's a nobleman, he's reached a position in the world which I never will, he has power and responsibility over far more than a few boys' games with boats and guns. Why does he have to envy me?

Now and then, John gave way to an impulse to tease Ratcliffe deliberately. Every time, he told himself it had to be the last. It was too dangerous, particularly now that there were matters of substance at stake. While at sea, John Smith had been in command. Ratcliffe, a landsman, could be no more than formally in charge: he could offer suggestions, but had to defer to John Smith's judgment. He certainly had offered suggestions. The business about Thomas had been a case in point. As John Smith had expected, Ratcliffe had brought it up the day after the storm and had suggested that Thomas should be disciplined for his clumsiness in falling overboard. John Smith had answered as smoothly as butter that Thomas was a passenger, not a sailor, and did not come under seamen's rules. He had been working on the cannon only because the man who was responsible for checking their fastenings had shirked the job. That man _had_ been disciplined, by being put on the night watch for the rest of the voyage. In any case, Thomas was hardly likely to fall overboard again for his own amusement. Ratcliffe had conceded the point, which should have been obvious anyway. But John Smith had come away from the interview seething, because he could see that he, not Thomas, was the real target of Ratcliffe's criticism, perhaps rightly. He was, for the moment, too important to touch, while Thomas was fair game. He was made aware of Ratcliffe's displeasure without being given the chance to defend himself; and an unfair threat was made against a harmless boy. If this was Ratcliffe's style of discipline, there was going to be trouble, now that the voyage was over and Smith was about to become a professional subordinate, the soldier of the party, like the surgeon and the carpenter.

John sensed trouble about the Indians, too. Time and again, already, he had spelled out his intended policy towards the natives to Ratcliffe and had never got either explicit agreement or any clear counter-suggestions. He did not know whether this was because Ratcliffe had a plan of his own that he intended to spring on him when the time came, or just because of Ratcliffe's personal antipathy to him and his preference for keeping all his subordinates in a state of uncertainty. Either way, he did not like it.

Well, he thought angrily, here we still are on board and Sir John is still in his cabin dusting his collar. I may as well give them my view of the matter while I can. He ought to be pleased with me for warming them up for him.

He went to the wheel and shouted for attention. 'Gentlemen,' he said to the assembled company, 'in a few minutes Governor Ratcliffe will address you and then we shall be going ashore. It has been a hard voyage, but we have arrived safely and without losses. Well done, and thank you.

'If this were an ordinary voyage, you would have time to rest and recover now. Instead, for us, the hardest days of our whole enterprise lie ahead. We must establish ourselves quickly in a position of strength; we must convince the natives that we mean business. We must keep up our courage, although we do not know what lies ahead of us. We know that if we succeed in these first few weeks, we are almost sure to succeed for good; once we get the seed planted, it will grow by itself.'

He looked around the crowded faces, seeing the hungry, apprehensive eyes sucking in hope from his words. He smiled.

'The most urgent matter is handling the natives properly,' he said. 'If we do that, we have nothing to fear. We don't see them yet, but they have almost certainly seen us. They will be here before the day is out, probably, to see what we are up to. Don't be afraid! There is no reason for them to think we are enemies: we will be a marvel to them. Let's keep it that way for a while. If we are courteous, they will be hospitable. Let them see our strength, and the benefits we can offer them. All their tools and weapons are wood and stone. We can trade them tinder and flint, knives and fish-hooks, for the food and land we need from them. And they can see our cannon and draw their own conclusions. Your native is not such a savage as all that. He may be warlike, but he understands the nature of a balance sheet; he knows which side his bread's buttered.'

The men laughed.

'So – let us tread softly at first. We know that if it comes to a battle we must certainly win; but our task will be made much easier if we have a breathing space first.' At this point, John Smith noticed that Ratcliffe was coming up the companionway; the men all bowed and made way for him, and John at once stepped aside from his commanding position at the wheel. 'Governor Ratcliffe is going to lead us ashore in a few moments,' he said. 'From now on you will be under his orders. It is our honour to be the first Englishmen to make a home in this land. Let us go in God's name and in the service of our King and country. Governor …' he bowed and then held out his hands to indicate to Ratcliffe and the men that the floor was now his.

Ratcliffe was applauded. He stood, feet apart, resplendent in velvet and lace, holding the royal commission to his paunch. 'Fellow countrymen,' he began ringingly, 'Captain Smith has spoken well in reminding you of the honour of serving your King and country in this enterprise which now begins in earnest. We may seem few and small on the edge of this great land, but don't forget what this colony can be in years to come, if we plant it boldly now. The beginnings of an empire – untold wealth for ourselves and our country! A bastion of England's power in the world; a counterpoise to the arrogance of Spain; a beacon for the Protestant faith.

'If all this comes to pass, it will be due to _us_: we will have changed the course of the world and men to come will praise us. Let us be worthy of the task. This is a moment for brave men, not cowards or shirkers. If we succeed, we shall have glory. If we fail, infamy or death, and we will deserve them.

'No rabble of savages must deflect us from our course. What are men who live no better than beasts, compared to a great Christian nation? We can laugh at their bone arrows and stone knives, and if any come looking for trouble, we shall give them a proper English welcome. Shan't we, men?'

The company laughed and cheered, and John Smith bit his lip, noticing that Ratcliffe's words were being received with more enthusiasm than his own.

'Reverend Brown will now lead us in prayer. Then we will disembark. You have your orders; follow them.'

Within a few minutes the landing was in full swing. John Smith took charge of towing the ship in to a deep, scooped-out curve of the river bank so that the stores could be lowered straight to land. Some men pitched tents, others went under the directions of the master carpenter to begin felling trees with which to build a stockade. Still others rolled the water-breakers to the stream to be washed and refilled. The work was well organised, but John Smith noticed how the men, despite having rested all night while the ship was anchored in the roads of the estuary, moved slowly and stumblingly about their tasks.

Thomas was beside him while they moored the ship fore and aft to trees on shore. 'Captain Smith,' he said hesitantly, 'is it true what you said about the natives having seen us already?'

'For sure, Thomas. There are bound to be people about in a place like this.'

'But ... where are they?'

'There aren't so many of them as there would be of us. They don't make much use of the land, compared to what we do, but you can wager they know who owns every tree.'

'Owns?'

'Owns, has a right to ... whatever. All right, let's check the other end.'

Thomas said nothing for a minute. Then he said, 'I thought they just ... lived in the forest, and if you drove them off they'd go somewhere else and not know the difference. You know ... like deer, I suppose.'

'No, it's not like that. Their homes are their homes, although they don't look like much to us. But we'll all be finding out a lot more about them than we know now, pretty soon. Is that done then?' He shouted up to Christopher Dawkins on deck. 'Carry on unloading. I must go and speak to the governor.'

He sought out Ratcliffe, who was supervising the erection of his tent. 'Governor,' he said, 'I suggest we let all the men pause for food and drink in a few minutes, and when they start again make sure they spell each other and no one works for more than an hour without a rest. Look at them.'

Ratcliffe looked at him. 'If the mate and the carpenter suggest it, I agree,' he said. 'I presume they know what the men are capable of.'

'You must decide, sir,' said John shortly. 'For myself, if you agree, I am going to explore the terrain and try to find out where the native settlements are. I'm surprised the natives haven't shown themselves yet, but it's better we come to them than wait for them to come to us, and the sooner the better.'

'By all means. Will you go alone?'

'Yes. I think it's safer. I shall be back by sunset at the latest.' He paused a moment. 'Before we landed I gave the order that if any Indians came, we should be friendly towards them, and, above all, avoid bloodshed unless our lives are in danger. We need to trade for food. We must not provoke them. Look at the men. They aren't in any fit state to fight a battle in the next few days... I am leaving them in your hands, Governor Ratcliffe.'

The ghost of a smile showed on Ratcliffe's sour face. 'Safe, I trust, Captain Smith,' he answered. 'There will be no fighting unless events demand it. We are ashore now. Go and do your job.'

In Ratcliffe's usual tone this would have been highly offensive, but as it was accompanied by the first good humour he had ever shown, John Smith chose to accept it.

Someone had to go to reconnoitre and it had to be himself. For most of the company, after weeks at sea, the land would still be moving up and down like a sheet on a clothesline. It would be highly unsafe to send them out into hostile country. But he felt uneasy about leaving them. He collected his musket, his compass and a pair of wax tablets, and some biscuit, and then paused for a few more minutes watching the work. What will they do if the Indians come? he wondered. Then he rallied himself: It's as Ratcliffe said. He is in charge now and you have your task like everyone else, and this is it. You find it pleasant. That is no reason not to do it. Sulking because you're not top dog any more? Don't be absurd, Smith.

With a sense of release he turned away from the camp and plunged into the trees. As he headed for higher ground, he moved warily and paused every few minutes to listen, but he neither saw nor heard the slender, shadowy shape that followed him.


	6. Chapter 6

48

CHAPTER 6

Two separate groups of Powhatan warriors who left the village in the morning to return to their summer homes further down the river came back within two hours to report strange and disturbing sights. The chief might have doubted their story if they had stopped in the middle of the village to tell the news to the women at work and the men who were still yawning and stretching around the embers, but when the leader of the first group left his followers in a silent huddle and asked to speak to Powhatan alone inside the longhouse, it gave him pause. The arrival of the second group clinched the matter. Powhatan called an assembly of all the men. While they were gathering, three or four others who had gone fishing came in with the same story.

The women had dispersed silently to their houses or garden plots. The few children left playing outside did so in subdued voices. The longhouse was buzzing. Powhatan called for silence and then summoned one after another of the witnesses to tell what they had seen. When they had finished, he allowed the villagers to question them. When everyone had chewed over the information and digested it to the best of their ability, the speakers' staff began to move around more slowly: it was time to decide what to do.

'It is for them to declare themselves,' said one man. 'They are the guests. We should wait. It would demean us to approach them first.'

'But how long can we wait?' demanded another. 'They have done nothing the proper way; they know nothing of proper customs. Are we to let them do as they like?'

'They are enemies, not guests,' shouted a third without waiting for the staff to reach him.

Powhatan frowned at the man and motioned to another, older warrior to speak.

'If they have been foolish enough to settle on the field of the old village for their landing,' this man said, 'we can be sure that they will not stay long. The spirits will drive them out. If they mean us harm, their own folly will defeat them.'

'But how do we know that the spirits have any power over them?' objected another. 'If they had, would they not have risen and driven them out at once? These men are strange. How do we know that they are not ghosts themselves? You say their skins are pale ...'

'I think they are not ghosts. They are men ...' put in one of the warriors who had seen the landing, but he could say no more. As the talk went on, he sat silently trying to put words to the feeling he had had as he lay in the forest and watched the busy, remorseless work of the pale-faced men: how they made themselves at home and never glanced at the houses of the dead under their feet; with what unbelievable speed their bright axes had brought the first great trees crashing down and had sliced them into timber. He had felt, not that they, but that he, the living man in his own land, was a ghost; that his presence was wraith-like and his footsteps hardly bent the grass, compared to the crushing tread of these men and the horrible excess of life in them.

Now a man who had been on an embassy to Powhatan's most distant allies was speaking. 'Chief, when I went northward in the spring I heard a rumour that pale-faced men have been seen in other places on the coast, far away where the whales go. I paid it no attention at the time, for it had come through many peoples and no one knew anything for certain. But they said that these men have weapons which kill at a distance with a noise of thunder, and that they are greatly feared.'

There was a murmur of unease. Then Powhatan said, 'If this is true, then it explains their insolence. We have all seen men who think their strength entitles them to trample on the law. I fear I must ask you to prepare for battle again. But we must know more about these strangers first. If they will not tell us their business, we must rely on our own wisdom to seek it out. Kekata, do you see anything?'

The shaman had sat silent until that moment. Looking at him, it became clear to Powhatan that his foreboding was so great that he was unwilling to speak for fear of disheartening the men. But they had to have his knowledge.

'I see nothing clearly,' he replied with an effort. 'I was sent no warning of this. Our gods seem to know no more of these pale men than the pale men know of them.'

A few voices protested.

'Can you not see in the smoke?' Powhatan asked.

'Chief,' said Kekata, with an undertone of desperation, 'you know that I should fast for two days and that it should be evening when I see in the smoke. How am I to do it now, of a sudden, especially when the matter is such a heavy one? If I see the signs wrongly now I may not be able to see them better at a later time.'

'All the same, Kekata,' said Powhatan, 'do it now, as a kindness to us. Our need will have to do instead of fasting. Who knows what may have happened two days from now?'

Kekata said no more, but went and sat cross-legged in the clear space in the middle of the longhouse, bowed his head and closed his eyes. At a sign from Powhatan, two men laid and lit a fire in the hearth in front of him. The smoke curled up into the rafters, making the dim light of the overcast day that filtered through the cracks in the roof and walls even fainter; the men were sitting in a brooding twilight. Everyone grew quiet. Even whispers died down. Someone had gone outside and hushed the calling of the children. Kekata sat with his elbows in his hands, swaying a little. His face grew more and more still and those who dared glance that way saw the look of the other world begin to come over it. They all sat there silent for about the half of an hour, which was long enough for time to seem to stand still, for everyone's thoughts to run in circles, become slow and then trickle down through the sand of their minds and be lost. When Kekata stood up and reached into the pouch at his waist for the leaves to throw on the fire, it seemed almost like the first happening in a new age of the world. The general shifting and murmur that ran along the rows of seated men was like the reawakening of shrouded figures sitting in the halls of the dead.

Kekata, passing his hands above the embers, spoke the slow ritual words and then scattered the leaves. At once a plume of pale smoke shot up to the roof, bent down and twisted, wraith-like, among the watchers.

Kekata stared into it with fixed eyes and spoke slowly, as if he were chanting.

'These are not men like us ... they come from the limitless sea ... they come swiftly and nothing can stay them.

'Their bodies shine like rotten wood ... in one hand they bring gifts that will break our roof-trees ... in the other, weapons that spout fire.'

A branch shifted in the fire and cracked, sending up a shower of sparks. Some men clenched their hands, some groaned in dismay.

Kekata's voice grew fainter. 'They prowl the earth like ravenous wolves, consuming all in their path ... when they have eaten the world, their hunger will only be greater.'

Kekata had finished. He sank down on the ground and closed his eyes again. The men hardly dared look at one another in their horror. One man was on his feet: it was Kocoum. As he held out his hand to Powhatan, one of the smoke-wraiths snaked around his back, cutting him off from his companions. Many remembered the evil omen later.

'Great Powhatan,' cried Kocoum, 'let me lead our warriors to the river-shore and we will destroy this enemy as we destroyed the Massowomecks!'

Powhatan spoke with authority, but there was an edge to even his voice. 'Kocoum, in that battle we knew how to fight our enemy, but these pale men are strange to us. If we must fight them it will need all our cunning. Take some men to the river-bank to observe them. Anything you see may serve us.'

To the assembly, he said, 'The spirits have shown us how wary we must be, of these men's weapons and of their gifts. But keep up your courage, my brothers. They may not be like us, but they are men. They came and they may leave again.'

At that moment, Governor Ratcliffe was hammering a stake into the ground where a flag would fly at the centre of the new town, which he had named Jamestown. The settlers, breaking their first bread in the New World, applauded as he declared that the land and all its riches were under the dominion of King James of England.

*****

John Smith, going uphill through the forest north-westwards, had reached a rocky outcrop where he could climb above the level of the trees and scan the river-valley for signs of settlement. He saw none at first, but did see that he had reached the top of a ridge or long hill which ran almost straight north and south, parallel to the estuary. There were few trees on the top; it was narrow and rocky in places but the going looked easy, certainly better than among the dense trees on the slope. Southward the ridge went on getting higher; northward it ran on almost level for at least a mile or two, with a few undulations which promised good vantage points. To the west the ground fell away a little, and then rose again in a higher, more broken ridge: the beginnings of a range of hills further inland.

There seemed to be a trail along the top of the low ridge, so there were clearly people about somewhere. John Smith tried to stay off the trail itself, moving from tree to tree just below the ridge. The ground was covered with drifts of dead leaves and dry twigs, with little undergrowth. It was difficult to move quietly, but at least one could see a fair way. He heard nothing but bird-calls and the rustle of small animals. He was surprised at how quiet and uninhabited the forest seemed, and wondered if he would have done better to stay at the water's edge. But this trail must lead somewhere. He followed it for half an hour, until it came out of the trees into a wide upland meadow, full of rocks, low bushes and tall dry tussocks of grass. Directly in front of him a gully almost split the ridge, beginning shallowly on its western edge and getting deeper on the east until its sides were proper cliffs. Beyond the gully the ground rose higher: a big hill with a bare top, forested sides, and a cliff on the east side falling, it seemed, all the way down to the level of the estuary, between two and three hundred feet. But on its west side the hill sloped away steeply but manageably, and behind its shoulder rose what he had been looking for: a thread of smoke.

He made his way cautiously round the end of the gully, surprising some deer feeding under its bank, and went on down through the trees round the side of the hill until he could see the rooftops: of grey weathered wood, some flat, some domed like beehives. There was a river down there, a fair-sized one. It must flow into the larger river on which the English were camped, somewhere just beyond this hill. And all round the village, on the flats beside the river and on terraces up the slope, were green rows of crops. These people farmed, then; they did not just hunt and gather. But there were no animals to be seen. It was a big place. If there had been any other villages as big along the bank between here and the camp, he would certainly have seen them from the ridge, so, even if this were not the nearest dwelling-place to where the English had landed, it was the nearest important one. But where were all the people? He could see only one or two, bending over with tools, close to the houses, and could hear no sound. He had an inkling that the strange silence and apparent desertion of the land had to do with the arrival of the settlers, and it made him uneasy.

He did not want to go any closer to the village: when he went there he wanted to be part of a deputation, not a spy. They would go the next day, by the route he had just followed: it was good enough. Then after that they could see whether it was possible to get there by boat, or straight along the river shore. Now what?

It was not yet noon. He could have gone straight back to camp, but was unwilling to do so. He argued to himself that it was worth exploring what lay further up this tributary river, and getting up into the hills to the west from which he would be able to see the whole plan of the estuary and any other large settlements along it. But really, it was the end of duty and the beginning of pleasure. An uneasiness about whether or not he should go further, perhaps, prompted him to feel that he was being watched. He looked round quickly; there was no one in sight. It was not safe so close to the village, that was clear. He forced himself to behave as if at ease for a few minutes while he took compass bearings and made a note and a rough sketch of the position of the village on his tablets. Arousing curiosity in anyone who might be watching him would be his best safeguard. Then he set off at a swinging pace through the woods directly westwards, to skirt the village and come towards the river well beyond it. He risked making some noise; when he reached a stretch of dead ground on his way downhill he stopped, crouched down out of sight of the trail, listened and watched; but he heard and saw nothing. Reassured, he went quietly on.

Not far beyond the village the land began rising in earnest. The valley down which the river flowed was narrow and rocky; several waterfalls cascaded down its sides. The sun came out for the first time in the day, gleaming on the white water. He was struck again by the blend of the strange and the familiar in the land. Heather blossomed, a large hawk circled lazily on the wind, yet hummingbirds darted among strange brilliant flowers at the water's edge, and once he came on a fat black bear eating berries. The bear waddled away into the bushes seeming more startled than John Smith. The unease John had felt while searching for the village melted away; his spirits rose steadily. This land, he felt, was made for him. If God had let him stand at His elbow at the creation and choose exactly what he wanted for a part of the world to be his own, this would have been it. The cleanness, the wildness – even the penumbra of danger, keeping his eyes and ears constantly sharpened – were all he could desire. I might have asked to have it a tiny bit cooler, he thought. The noonday was sultry; as he walked briskly in the sunshine he was sweating into a shirt already so stiff with salt and sweat that it could have stood up by itself. He was at the head of the valley: it ended in a cliff fifty feet high over which the river fell into a large, dark pool with afternoon shadows beginning to creep over it. He looked at the pool. Why carry a shipboard stink with one into the New World? Pity those poor fellows slaving away under Ratcliffe's orders back at camp; it wasn't likely any of them would get the chance of a swim; but was that any reason why he shouldn't? He leaned his musket and satchel carefully against a rock and took off his helmet, leather jerkin, boots and stockings, but kept the rest of his clothes on; he might have to run for it and he drew the line at doing so naked.

He plunged in, gasping at the cold, and swam fast across the pool as close to the boiling water under the falls as he could before being pushed back. He wallowed, let himself go under, came up spurting water, and then floated on his back feeling the spray drenching his face and hair. Then, swimming back to the shallows, he reached down for handfuls of sand and scrubbed himself. Another idea. He went back to his bag for a biscuit, crumbled it and rubbed the meal thoroughly over his skin and into his hair before rinsing it out. There was enough oil in it to be of some use in getting rid of the dirt.

He would have liked to stay in the water longer but was too conspicuous there, so, climbing out and going behind a rock, he took off his clothes, wrung them out and put them on again, and then settled down to dry a little in the warm sun, luxuriating in being cleaner than he had been for weeks, while he munched his noon biscuit.

After that he decided to see what was at the top of the cliff. It looked possible to climb at the far side of the waterfall. There might be a way round but it would take too long to find it. He crossed the river, wading, and climbed straight up the rock face with a few slips but no serious trouble. Coming over the edge of the cliff, he found himself in a whole new, wild country. The ground still rose gently but it was a new level that he had reached, a plateau, rather than the top of a range of hills. The forest again closed in on both sides of the river, but the river flowed in a depression, almost a gorge, filled with stepped and tumbled rocks, small patches of grass and solitary twisted trees. The going was difficult and the view was restricted. After walking in the gorge for a mile or so he reached another waterfall, lower and wider than the first. He climbed up onto a high pile of rocks on the edge of the gorge and, lying flat, looked back the way he had come. A good view was opening out. He could see the estuary; at this distance the wooded wildness of the shores seemed unbroken, except by the tiny, exotic shape of the _Susan Constant_ riding at anchor, just far enough out in the stream to be seen. Well – everyone in the neighbourhood must have seen her by now. But this upland country seemed deserted. Just as he thought this, he again had the uncomfortable intuition of being watched. This time he took more notice of it. He had learned to trust such feelings. It came crawling over his skin, all the more noticeable compared with the ease and freedom of moments before. This was a bad place in which to be followed; there was excellent cover and the noise of the waterfall drowned any sound the pursuer might make. He reminded himself that although he might be uncertain, the answer was certain: either there was someone after him or there was not, and one way or another he would find out soon. In any case, it was time he got away from the river and headed home.

He climbed carefully down to the water's edge, just below the waterfall, where a row of smooth rocks offered a way back across. Although he was still damp from swimming, climbing had made him hot again. He crouched on the wet stones, scooped his hands full of cold water and drank, then dashed a handful into his face and down his neck. Cupping and lifting his hands again, he waited for the water in them to settle and looked at it.

There. He was not mistaken. He saw in the water in his hands, dim and blurred, the reflection of the high rock down which he had just climbed, and on its shoulder, the merest shadow, a human figure.

He must not look too long. He drank the water, waited a moment, then took a backward glance. There was no one to be seen. But he was sure.

*****

Pocahontas had followed the stranger with all her skill for something like eight miles, yet even after that she could not have explained to herself what she was doing.

On one level, she knew, she was playing a silly, childish game. It was born of the defiant mood, the desire to prove herself, with which she had set out from the village at dawn. They thought she was just a girl, yet _she _had been the one who had had warning of the foreigners' arrival; she, not any of the warriors, had seen the man with yellow hair set out from the camp; it was up to her to find out what he aimed to do. She had begun the task and no one else would finish it. But she was not sure that she ever really intended to come back triumphantly to the village with intelligence that would give her people a weapon against the invaders. When the yellow-haired man was in the woods just above the village, it would have been a simple matter to slip past, run down to the longhouse and send the men after him; he would have been caught in no time. Would that not have been a brilliant stroke for Pocahontas, daughter of Suleawa? Yet she never gave it serious thought. That being so, what she was doing was surely just childish: an imaginary game with herself, of no consequence to anyone else. Nevertheless she knew very well that it was not as if she were a little girl slipping off after her brother when he went hunting, with only laughter or at worst a box on the ear to fear if he caught her. She was risking her life. So what _was_ she doing?

She had formed no intention, but something deep inside her drove her to follow the man, to know more about him: something that hid as if with an intention of its own from conscious thought. It was as if, ever since Grandmother Willow had told her to listen and she had heard the strange voice of the wind, the river of her mind had plunged underground and was running in a cavernous course where she could see nothing, but every twist and turn happened of itself, swiftly and decisively. How did the arrival of the pale men concern her? What was the part she had to play between them and her people? What was the link between them and the spinning arrow, the promise held out to her for so long? She had no idea, but never mind. All her waking mind had to do was wait, and meanwhile put all its cunning into staying hidden and following.

This stranger who gazed over the land – she had not seen his face clearly since that first moment, but she desired to know what lay behind its alien beauty. At the same time, it had frightened her in a way she had never known before, and she was drawn to experience the fear again in order to understand it.

As she followed him, her fear was ever-present, and yet she felt a kinship with him. Almost from the beginning, as soon as she began to trust herself, she could read the rhythm of his movements. She knew when he was about to stop and look round, and when he would move on; when she heard him step on dry branches on the way down the hillside, she knew that he would be lying in wait later, and she outwaited him. Did this mean that she was too clever for him? She had the strangest feeling that, really, it was he who was playing a game with her; that he knew she was there and was leading her on, like an indulgent brother with his small sister, or even like an expert tracker training a young warrior. Fantastic though this idea was, there was a playful air about his movements that gave it some foundation. And was it not extraordinary? – that a stranger in the land, surrounded by unfriendly spirits as well as enemy warriors, should look as if he were playing? When he made ready to swim in the pool below the waterfall, she was aghast at the disrespect, as well as deeply embarrassed to be seeing a man reveal himself. She ducked behind a rock and would not look after the first glance. But when he started to climb the rock-face she was truly incredulous. Had he no fear at all? She climbed round by an easy way hidden by rocks and deep grass, and spied on him at intervals. When his foothold crumbled and he slid down fast for twice his own height, she thought that he was punished at last. But he came up hard against a projecting tree-root that stopped his fall, and she could swear that she heard him laugh gleefully as he hauled himself up again. Never had she seen anything like this man. He is like the puma, the mountain lion, she thought. But his hair is more golden than the lion's... And the daring grace with which he moved, not as if he belonged to the land, as her own menfolk did, nor as if it were a baffling menace, as he should have done, but as if its powers were a challenge that his fragile human spirit could meet: this was something she had never seen before. She wanted to condemn it, but could not help admiring it.

Perhaps, of course, he possessed some superior witchcraft that he trusted to keep him safe. He might have been casting a spell when he stood facing towards the village holding an unknown small object in his hands; that sinister weapon which he carried – she knew it must be a weapon of some kind – might have infallible power. But somehow she thought not. His skill at moving through the country was the kind of skill she was used to. Good, if not quite good enough – and she smiled to herself as she stood up on the shoulder of the rock to watch him drinking below the waterfall, then slipped back out of sight just when she knew he was going to finish his drink and glance behind. She felt, obscurely, that his manner conveyed challenge, not arrogance; not a wish to harm, but a wish to know – just as she herself wanted to know ... But where would this end?

*****

John Smith thought fast. He now had the advantage: his pursuer had been seen, but did not know it. He must use that advantage quickly, before he was killed from behind: he must lie in wait and trick his watcher into showing himself. He would have to have a weapon at the ready, to intimidate the man so that he would not immediately attack him, or call others to do so. Then perhaps they could parley. He hoped there would be no killing, but he had to be ready to fight. And even wishing his first encounter with an Indian could have begun otherwise, he could not prevent the effect of the danger on his body, quickening his heartbeat and intensifying all his sensations, so that he bent and drank his last mouthful of water with a sharper enjoyment of its coldness and the life of the foaming waterfall in it. He straightened up, shouldering his musket again, stretching, and flexing his shoulders with a sensual enjoyment that was also a challenge to the watcher he knew was behind him. He told himself that that was no way to treat a man who might be dead in a few minutes, but his body knew only its own danger, and was glad of it.

The river launched its feathery edges of water down the cliff, one by one, broken and drifting, at dizzying speed and endlessly; close by you could hear their separate crashes on the water below. John began to cross, knowing that if his pursuer meant to shoot him he would never get a better chance, hoping he would hesitate. Towards the far side, from a rock very near the fall, he saw what he had not seen before: that the cliff overhung and that there was a sizeable cave hidden behind the waterfall, its floor just above water level. At this edge of the river there was less water coming down. He glanced back: could not see the man who was following: thrust the stock of the musket under his jerkin and jumped through the curtain of water, into the cave.

The water struck on his head and shoulders for a shuddering instant, but left him only damp. The cave was too low for him to stand upright, but large enough to hide three or four men. Its floor was fairly level, covered in green weed like thick hair, dank in the constant spray. It was dark; his eyes took a few moments to adjust. He turned to the entrance, the silver curtain of water falling before his eyes, and crouched there priming his musket. If his follower was now climbing from the top of the rocks down to the river's edge, he would lose sight of the crossing-place for at least two or three minutes while he did so; the more carefully he was moving, the longer. John Smith watched the tiny fuse glow in the shadows and counted, slowly and carefully, the lapse of two minutes. Then he risked peering through the water to look back. For a moment the clouding spray stopped him seeing anything at all, but then it cleared momentarily and revealed a figure – unexpectedly slight – standing on the first stepping-stone; only a shadow, surrounded by white mist that immediately closed over it again.

Now was the moment. He leaped back down through the falling water, landed crouching on the stone where he had been before, pivoted on his heels and instantly raised the gun and took aim.

He saw his pursuer clearly now. Not thirty feet away, she had just jumped from one stone to the next and was bent low, finding her balance. She saw him, slowly straightened until she stood upright, and looked full in his face – with strange eyes hooded and bright like a falcon's – motionless now from head to foot, except for her long, bluish-black hair, which lifted like a spread wing in the wind from the waterfall.

He slowly lowered his gun. In that moment, although he did not know it yet, his whole world was broken in pieces; he would have to build it up again from a new beginning.


	7. Chapter 7

58

**Disclaimer: Characters belong to the Disney Corporation.**

**To my reviewers: thank you, thank you and thank you! **

**In this coming chapter I have the problem of conveying the 'Colours of the Wind' song without music, and without Pocahontas's miraculous ability to speak English, a trick you can play in a cartoon but not in a novel. I have tackled the language problem by having Pocahontas and John Smith both unusually, but not I hope impossibly quick at picking up languages. Do you think it works?**

CHAPTER 7

She was a young girl, hardly eighteen years old, with copper-coloured skin; dressed in a shift of greyish deerskin with a fringe that moved a little in the wind; her arms and legs bare; poised on the rock with an unconscious wild grace that pierced him through. All of a sudden he knew himself for an intruder, with no right to be there at all, but still he stared at her – foolishly, he knew; and she stared back, with a still, unreadable expression. Searching? Accusing? Beseeching? Whatever else it was, it was not ashamed and not afraid.

Slowly and with growing amazement he wondered how far she had followed him – perhaps all the way from the village, and in the end he had only caught her because he happened to know a trick that she did not. She had followed him, alone. Why? Who knew whether she had human motives at all? Was he being shown something that no man had ever seen before?

The waterfall thundered beside them, they stood facing each other, and slowly he went down on one knee, laying the musket on the rock beside him. She was a girl, a human girl – but that made her beauty and the rarity of the spirit he sensed in her more amazing, not less.

Pocahontas felt as if she had steered her canoe too far to one side, in playful over-confidence, and now the whirlpool over the hidden rocks was sucking her down, its stark force in contrast with the slightness of the movement she had made. The man faced her, no longer a teasing, distant brother. His face was the mask of the mountain lion when it springs. She had meddled in what she did not understand. She could have no kinship with these men: they were takers, they were destroyers, and this one was going to kill her. She would be punished for her folly. All the same, she was not going to be ashamed of what she had done. Folly it might have been, but she would not deny it at the last moment, when the spirit that had called it out of her had been so strong. Let him kill her as she was, if it was what he intended.

But it seemed it was not. He stood up, letting down his weapon, and gazed at her. The fume of the waterfall drifted between them, making his face look more ghostly than ever, but it was so near that she saw it clearly. With parted lips and those strange wide eyes, he was staring at her with an intensity that brushed her with fire. Suddenly all her fear returned – terror of being seen and known for what she was by a being that she could not comprehend, one who knew no laws, no restraints. He _had_ seen the truth; it was the echo of her own desire that was returning to her out of the alien face.

She stood watching as if rooted to the spot while he slowly knelt down, lowered one foot, then the other into the fast-running water and began wading towards her, step by step, braced against the current, but smoothly, as if to avoid frightening an animal. He had left his weapon on the rock; he was empty-handed, his arms stretched out for balance. He never stopped looking at her. Panic took all her judgment away: she understood his face less the longer she saw it. When he was so close that he had to tilt back his head to look at her, he raised one hand, removed the hard, shining covering from his head and stood holding it. His golden hair shook loose, and all at once he looked young and almost fragile. His face moved as if he were about to speak.

Pocahontas could bear it no longer. The stranger had seen what was in her heart and was going to use it to triumph over her. Even his pose of courtesy was intolerable. She wanted to be free of it, to shake off all the confusion and fear, to be the girl she had always been. She leaped past him to the next stone, then frantically on across the river and up the rocks to the edge of the forest. In a minute she could make sure he would never find her.

'_No!_ _Stop - wait_ ...'

The unearthly silence between them had lasted so long that his shout sounded to him clumsy and irreverent. But he could not let her go. He must know who she was. He caught up the gun and scrambled over the rocks, and as he reached the bank caught a glimpse of her running like a deer between the first trees. In a moment would he wonder if he had ever seen her at all?

'Wait – please …' he called, out of breath.

This woman was the promise the country had held out to him from the moment he had landed. The sense of being welcomed to his real home, of being offered new life – this was what it had meant, or it meant nothing. What were rocks and trees and rivers – all the lonely sterility of the earth? _I've seen dozens of new worlds: what could possibly be different about this one_? She was – if only she would wait.

She was waiting. In a small grassy space overlooking the water, overshadowed by one huge tree, she was there – touching the tree-trunk with one hand, poised to run again.

He propped the musket on a rock at the edge of the little meadow and came forward again a few steps with his hands held out. 'Don't run away. I'm not going to hurt you.' Foolish words. As if he could, even if he wanted to. She could outrun him; she had more power than he did. But he had to say something. She was afraid, trembling. If she only knew ...

Pocahontas glanced up to see the stranger coming, then looked down again, but knew that he had stopped. Why did she not run, make good her escape? Did the note of need in his voice have more power over her than anything yet?

It took more courage than she had needed in her life for her to raise her head and look him in the face now that there was no protection, not even a few feet of water, between herself and him. She saw again the burning look which had so frightened her, but saw, too, gentleness and a certain clarity and firmness, as of a man who could put himself under restraint, and who would keep his word.

She trusted him. She felt like one who has begun falling down a cliff, whose fall is broken by a wide, secure ledge. He is still trapped in mid-air, not knowing how to go forward or back, but for a short time the solid safety of the ledge seems enough.

She noticed for the first time the vivid colour in his light eyes: the colour of the summer sky.

'I won't harm you,' he said. 'Please stay.'

She answered a few words in a strange language, pleadingly, twisting her fingers in the hair that hung by her cheek. The girlishness of the gesture, in one who had seemed so free and sure, moved him intensely. Of course she could not understand what he was saying.

'Who are you?' he whispered, as much to himself as to her.

Pocahontas understood the question. He was not asking her name, which would have been effrontery. It was something else. The underground stream in her mind welled up silently to sweep away her fear, her uncertainty, and the obstruction of all that could not be said or understood. To feel foolish was a waste of time, when she saw clearly on his face the look of a young man receiving the dream that tells him what his life must be, and questioning it, searching out the meaning of the figures it shows him.

A sense of awed responsibility came over her. Many times already she had wondered if the ship and the bright-haired man were dream-figures, or answers to her dream. Now it seemed that she, and her whole world, were dream, sign and spirit to him. Was she mistaken in thinking herself part of the waking world at all? Or could they somehow both be awake and dreaming at the same time? She felt the boundaries of her understanding stretch and give, more dizzyingly than when she had heard the voice of the wind. She fleetingly thought of Grandmother Willow: how simple and one-voiced her advice had seemed to be to the child who had sat before her that morning – to listen with your heart.

If she was this man's dream, it was her duty to speak to him gently and clearly. She must tell him her meaning, which meant saying her name after all.

'Pocahontas,' she said, looking at him levelly. Still he looked perplexed, so she said it again, with her hand on her heart. 'My name is Pocahontas.'

At that his face relaxed and he smiled with relief. Her fear returned for a moment. Was he laughing at her? What would he do with her name now that she had trusted him with it? Had she not behaved foolishly, as if they were two children who had happened to meet at play by the waterside – 'What's your name?' 'Who's your father?'

But perhaps in this new life of meeting dreams they had to begin as if they were children again. Still smiling, he pointed to himself and said his own name. She could not repeat it at first: it seemed to begin twice over and end without having made any sounds you could seize on. But she tried, and they laughed together.

Standing in the shade of the tree, they looked at one another without any idea what to say or do next, but with understanding threading the air between them, frail and shining as gossamer.

*****

The summer afternoon went on. Heavy thunder-clouds built up in the sky, but failed to reach as high as the sun. The leaves rustled and the water of the river shone in a flickering rhythm beneath their shadow. Birds with bobbing tails came down to drink, perching on the stepping-stones. The calls of other, unseen birds sounded from the forest, over the endless, outpouring note of the waterfall. In this bright, secret world, the man and the woman felt that their spirits were fallen leaves scudding on the surface of the water. Hesitantly at first, then more and more easily, they gave way to laughter. He was a boy, pulling faces and playing to the gallery, she a small girl, hugging her knees and shaking with giggles. Now and then one of them would get up to snatch a stick and draw on the ground, or go between the rocks to where the soil was soaked in order to trace signs with a wet finger. They asked questions and exchanged words at random, laughing when all words failed, then falling silent and looking at each other sidelong, or gazing at the playing light and water, wondering what to do with the huge freight that moved, ponderous and silent, under the surface where the crisp leaves danced.

They already knew, though darkly and without confidence, that they were matched: each needed the other and no one else, although they had been born thousands of miles apart and neither could understand a word the other spoke. It was this which made them laugh, yet the sheer size of what they might share and its fragility made them afraid. Was it not madness even to think of steering such a cargo through the waters ahead of them? He knew, and she guessed, that his people had come to take what they wanted from hers without the slightest regard. Not yet knowing how their meeting could possibly change this, they both avoided making it clear. The pretence was transparent, yet they gave themselves up to it joyfully. They did not touch one another; they left passion undisturbed, and met only at the edges of themselves, in the evanescence of laughter. For a while it satisfied them.

At last John Smith leaned back on a rock and tried a catechism of all the words in her language that she had taught him until then, while she interspersed the English translations and they laughed at each other. 'Chicahominy ... Quiyoughcohannock ... Pocahontas,' he ended and raised his eyebrows. 'You have most unusual names,' he added in English.

She understood him. 'Not as strange as yours,' she replied in her own language, 'John Smith.' The extreme care with which she pronounced that most ordinary of names made him snort with laughter. Yet he suddenly liked the name better than before. Is this the first time in my life I've really liked being John Smith? he wondered. He stretched a hand out behind him to find his bag with the tablets in it, to write the Indian words down, and found instead a furry haunch, which he grabbed and pulled. He swung the raccoon over his head, loose in its grey fur and with all four paws splayed out, its head buried in his satchel, which came with it.

'Meeko!' said Pocahontas reproachfully, taking the racoon round the middle. Its head emerged, unrepentantly chewing on John Smith's last biscuit.

'Friend of yours?' asked John, then remembered where he had seen such an animal before. The ring-tailed beast on the rock, with the sharp-eyed girl behind it ... He looked straight into Pocahontas's eyes, and she looked back at him, glanced away abashed, and then started to laugh. He began laughing too. Five minutes after his first landing! What was done was done. But how many Indians might be watching the men in camp now, without their having the least idea?

He put this thought aside. 'Well, good day, Meeko,' he said and bowed to the raccoon. Then he had to explain the greeting to the girl. In return, she showed him a circular movement of her hand from the shoulder, which went with the word _Win-gapo_ and a smile of welcome. Then she stood up and half turned as if leaving. '_An-na_,' she said, beginning to move her hand round in the opposite direction.

He rose quickly and raised his hand to prevent her. She understood and stopped in mid-gesture, and for a moment, as they looked at each other, a chill fell on both of them.

It was broken when they heard a scuffling sound beside them. The raccoon, looking for more food, had found something else inside the satchel: a small round object. John Smith shouted and Pocahontas lunged after Meeko, but he swarmed smartly up a rock and, failing to bite through the compass, banged it hard against the stone like a tough nutshell. Chased further, he took refuge in the tallest tree, where he went on hammering with the compass for some moments, then tucked it into his cheek and disappeared.

So as not to distress Pocahontas, John shouted after the raccoon: 'All right! Keep it. Call it a gift!'

'What was that?' she asked. It had not crumbled or broken, but had struck sparks from the rock.

'My compass,' he answered. 'It helps you find your way when you get lost.' He imitated a man scanning the horizon, guided by a pointing finger. This did not seem to mean much to Pocahontas, but she was still upset by the loss. 'Don't worry, I can get another one,' he assured her. In fact, being without the compass was a serious nuisance, but he tried to recover his carefree mood.

'What was it?' asked Pocahontas as they sat down again. 'Hard!' She mimed hammering as the raccoon had done.

'Hard,' replied John in English. 'Metal ... steel.' He took his helmet and tapped it with a stone so that it rang. He showed her how thin and light the steel was. Then he laid his knife beside it and tried the edge with his thumb. Holding a stone in each hand, he struck the two together until one of them chipped and crumbled. 'Stone is not so good,' he said, smiling. 'Steel is better. We'll show you, later.' He stood up and used the knife to cut a large blaze on the trunk of the tree in the clearing. It shaved the bark off easily.

Suddenly, Pocahontas's face closed. She rose and stood watching the white scar on the great tree begin to moisten like a superficial graze on human skin. Without a word she turned her back and walked away towards the waterside. John Smith stared after her. She was clearly angry, but for a moment he could not think what he could possibly have done to make her so.

He came up behind. 'What is it?' he asked. She turned on him with eyes like a hunting cat's, hissed something and strode further away. For a cold instant he feared that all their earlier understanding had been illusory, and that she was as unpredictable as a wild thing. Then he began to see what he had done. For the first time he had let a superior note into his voice; he had spoken from the deep assumption, which he had never thought to question before he met her, that the savages were ignorant and his own people were wise: that the English had all to teach and nothing to learn. Until that moment he had treated her as a respected equal; but then she must have seen all at once how much he and his people despised hers. Of course she was furious, and how would he be able to mend his mistake?

But was it a mistake? He floundered in the gap between the training of a lifetime and the inchoate knowledge of the last hour, as he scrambled among the rocks to try to keep the girl in sight. He called out to her to wait and got for answer a high, clear shout of two syllables, heard only faintly above the noise of the water, but plain enough in meaning. By the time he reached a place with a clear view she was nowhere to be seen. He cast to and fro for a minute or two, then sat down despondently. What was the use of searching for her, if she did not want to be found?

She _was_ just a savage, surely. A child, or a beautiful animal, in whom his loneliness had seen something that was not really there; good to beguile the time for an afternoon, but not to deflect him from his views or his purposes ... No! If he thought that, he was insulting himself. She was rare and precious, unique; the others could not be like her. But then he thought further and saw that that would not do, either. Were not the things that drew him to her inseparable from her being a 'savage'? Her daring, her physical freedom, the innocence that allowed her to sit beside him half naked and yet possess herself more fully and assuredly than any lady he had ever met caparisoned in tassels and lace – could these be virtues that savages were more likely to encourage than civilised people? And where did that leave him and his mission?

He got up again with new determination to find her and know her better, however angry she might be. And this time he found her almost at once, sitting right at the water's edge, her head bent down to the mossy, overhanging roots of a tree. She raised her head as he hesitantly came nearer, and gave him a long look that prevented him from speaking. It was free of anger, assessing but remote, and sorrowful, as if she had gone deep into herself and discovered something new in the time they had been apart.

How old is she really? he wondered. Perhaps much older than I thought: I never saw a girl of eighteen look like that.

She said a word that clearly meant 'Look', and drew him down with a gesture onto the moss beside her. He watched and waited.

She pointed to the moss under her hand, vivid green and cushioned, and said a name, glancing up at him to make sure that he understood. He nodded, but when he tried to repeat the word she hushed him in order to point out some moss that he saw, after a glance, was a slightly different kind, with tall club heads, growing mingled with the first. Then she named a third moss, long-stranded and grey, that grew further up the trunk of the tree. Then, steadily, she went on to name two different lichens and the rough, cracked bark of the tree itself, showing in the gaps between them. A group of ants was labouring across the cracks carrying a yellow, early-fallen leaf. Pocahontas gave a name to the leaf, then to the ants. Further up scurried a different, larger kind of ant; she named that.

She gave a sound of satisfaction and pushed aside a spray of green leaves growing by itself from the base of the tree. All that he could see, sheltering behind them on the bark, was an insect with dark, folded wings, crawling slowly upwards. It seemed insignificant until it reached a patch of sunlight and sat still. Then its wings began to spread, uncrumpling movement by tiny movement, like the ripples of a rising tide lapping on a beach. It was a butterfly with wings of a translucent green like antique glass. Nearby was the pale, dry husk of the chrysalis from which it had just hatched.

As Pocahontas murmured, whether to the butterfly or about it he could not tell, he felt a movement of protest and raillery in himself. He had work to do. What was he doing sitting here, attending to these minute things like a truant schoolboy with the whole day to waste? But the movement was half-hearted. Already without knowing it he was sunk more deeply in the world than he had ever been before. Where for many years other living things had formed a half-noticed stage for whatever effort or enterprise he was engaged in at the time, now they took on solidity and significance. He began, with wonder, to have an inkling of how the world seemed to the girl beside him. It was not like his world of half-remembered scenes from three continents and twenty cities, held together only by a sense of his own progress through fleeting companionships and dangers; it was one solid world, limited indeed, but understood to the smallest detail, with depths and intricacies nested one within another, like the chapels and shrines in a cathedral, or like amethyst crystals inside a boulder; a world in which one might move quietly, knowing one's own insignificance, content in the sufficiency of the whole.

They both watched the butterfly as it rose a little from the bark and vibrated its wings, now dry in the sunlight and ready to take its first flight. Suddenly it flickered and was yards away in the air, flying with strong wing-beats over the river. They could hardly see it against the brilliant water, but they searched for it with their eyes and found it hovering low over the flecks of foam that raced away from the waterfall. Perhaps it mistook them for flowers; whatever the reason, it landed on the surface, and they saw it struggling for only a moment before the current carried it past them and away.

John Smith looked at Pocahontas curiously. What would be her response to this proof of the everyday waste and cruelty in her gem-like world? Would she weep, would she be callous, or would she feel it but shrug it off as anyone older than a child must? She felt it, he was sure. She knelt gazing after the butterfly for many moments without speaking. Her face was still but her eyes were fierce and, he thought, bright with tears. Then she rose and walked a few steps upstream along the bank. They had come some way below the waterfall and, from where they stood, could see the rainbow that hung in the fine sunlit spray midway down its drop. She knelt down by the water again and scooped the surface with her hand. There was a tiny bay in the river's edge into which floating debris was driven and could not easily escape. Her hand came up full of drowned insects: tiny flies, mosquitoes, a spider, and two or three beetles. She let the water run off them and told over all their names, as she had done with the mosses at the tree-root. Dipping them off her hand back into the water, she stood up, walked on again with a sign to him to wait, and leaned slowly and carefully on an outcrop of rock that overhung the water just ahead. She glanced back at him with a smile: in the same instant he heard a whir of wings and saw a glint of metallic blue as a kingfisher darted from its nest in the rocks. It sheared the water, flew right into the spray of the falls and out again, and vanished among the trees on the opposite bank. Pocahontas stood in the straight, pliant stance in which he had first seen her and cried a short, musical word after the kingfisher.

Then she turned back to John Smith. Her face grave, she brought up her hand slowly. She pointed to where the bird had flown, then with her other hand pointed to a drowned gnat still clinging to her palm. She touched her own breast, then the rock, then moving a couple of steps she laid her palm against the trunk of a tree and looked up into its canopy, and over towards where the grey trunks of the forest trees marched away, older than either of them knew and with leaves and lives on them beyond counting. With a shadow of a smile, she lightly touched John Smith on the chest. She held both hands as high as she could above her head, and brought them down and outward on each side until they met again in front of her waist, tracing a great circle, or perhaps a huge bale or a jar of something precious she had to carry. She then beckoned him away from the river and under the trees.

His heart was still. The glancing laughter of their first time together was far behind. She had touched him somewhere deeper, so deep that thought was impossible. But he had a kind of vision of what she was trying to show him. It was a world in which spirits stepped at will from insect to tree to stone; life flowed through transparent boundaries, ceasing here and beginning there, but never diminishing. He saw himself in this life too, content to walk with her among the trees, together with the wild things, with no aim but to be; not fencing out cold, or sun, or hunting creatures, but meeting them as equals without fear, so much effaced into the world that he could be prepared to send his own life into its keeping whenever it might become necessary, as calmly as one launches a leaf boat into a pool.

Afterwards he could not remember all that they had done. He remembered her picking berries and sharing them with him, and showing him flowers with faces like the sun and others that wreathed sky-blue round fallen tree trunks. She took him past the tree under which they had sat at first, and he wondered at the self he had been who had scarred it idly. But when he looked at the place he had cut with his knife, it was covered with tawny butterflies drinking the sap that had trickled out.

They climbed past the waterfall and stood together on the high rocks. In the blinding sky, almost too far up to be seen, wheeled two broad-winged hunting birds. Pocahontas threw her head far back, looking at them, and imitated the harsh, lonely cry which one of them gave. Then she called a word to them on two high notes, midway between a shout and a bird's call. The eagles flew lower little by little in broad sweeping curves. The girl went on crying and calling until one bird flew close by her head with a huge ruffling of black-and-white barred feathers, and alighted in passing on her outstretched arm. He saw its wild eye, like a flake of the gold he was supposed to be looking for; then it soared off. Her face shining, she motioned to him to reach out his arm too. When he did so, both birds came back, one to Pocahontas, its mate to him, and for a single moment they all stood there, the girl and the man with the talons of the eagles pricking their arms and the wind of their wings on their faces, four wary, deadly creatures trusting one another, until the humans tossed up their arms and stood with them raised in farewell, as the wings took the birds' weight and they rose again into their limitless world.

He had never felt such delight. He lowered his eyes from watching the eagles to look at the girl as she stood lit from one side by the sunshine that was growing golden in the late afternoon. Suddenly he sensed trouble in her. She was frowning and listening intently to something other than the bird-calls and the water.

'What is it?' he asked, going close to her.

She said something but he could not understand. She tapped a rhythm with one finger on her chest, sounding hollow, very soft but relentless. She led him behind a rock to where the sound of the waterfall was not so loud. He listened and then for a moment he heard too: drums being beaten far away, so far that he could hear them only when a gust of wind brought the sound more loudly. She heard them continuously.

Her eyes were wide with fear, which communicated itself to him at once, together with a reminder of long-neglected duty. If the drums meant trouble for her, what did they mean for him? What had been happening while they dallied the afternoon away together in the high country?

She spoke again and with swift decision turned as if to go. He tried to dissuade her. 'Please stay.' She pushed her hands forward in denial, looking at him pleadingly. 'I must see you again,' he said urgently. Her face was full of distress but she only shook her head, thrust herself away from him and plunged between the rocks. He stood as if rooted to the spot and watched her descend, leaping and turning with almost the momentum of falling water, then loping across a meadow and passing out of sight among the trees.

He passed his hand over his forehead. Perhaps he had dreamed it all, so suddenly was he alone again.


	8. Chapter 8

68

**Disclaimer: the only named non-Disney character in this chapter is Christopher Dawkins.**

**Thanks for the reviews! Glad you all thought the scene worked despite the absence of Colours of the Wind. (And that you can stand my English spelling).**

**With this chapter I get to the point where there will be a lot more of my own scenes and own characters – hope it doesn't bore you. What I have to do is establish some practical aims and doings for the settlers, other than dancing around with shovels, and start working up the tension between John Smith and Ratcliffe about the aims of the expedition, which will be a major plot point.**

**Enjoy! **

CHAPTER 8

So now what was he to do? He glanced at the sky. He had no time to lose if he wanted to be back at camp by sunset. And how was he to get there? The way he had come, passing the Indian village, would be too dangerous now. But what obstacles might he not find if he headed straight across the hills? She might have been considerate enough to stay to give him directions, he thought fatuously. And he had not even got his compass.

He made his way back down the gorge and the cliff beside the first waterfall, and then left the river's edge and struck out southwards up the side of the valley. He found himself scrambling among rocky gullies choked with deep undergrowth. At every check his frustration and worry grew more acute. He was aware of nothing else on the surface of his mind. Deep down, though, stillness and a sense of security still held him embraced. It was as if the larger part of him was asleep, or locked away doing some secret work of its own. He had an inkling of this when he found that he could no longer trouble himself to move silently or stay hidden. It was not just his hurry that dictated this, but a conviction that nothing could now harm him, that he, personally, was completely safe. All his worry was for his men and how they had fared without him. And in fact, he encountered no enemy and met with no accidents, and eventually came through to the low ridge beside the estuary along which he had walked first in the morning. He swung along the trail carelessly, relieved to glimpse tree-tops on the opposite side of the river still lit golden by the sun, although his side was already in shadow.

The evening forest brooded, very quiet but for an occasional quiver in the branches, its colours faded to a pallid grey with dark shadows. Though part of him wanted to stay there, sheltered in the silence, he began to long for his own kind, for walls, fire and food. Before he had even begun looking for the landmarks that would tell him to turn off towards the camp, he was waylaid by a faint smell of woodsmoke. Stopping and listening, he heard distant shouts and the tapping of a mallet, certainly more than half a mile away. The sounds startled the depths of his mind and they began to wake to a life he felt he had left behind months before, not earlier that day. What a difference the coming of his people had already made to that silent forest!

In a short time high posts and a blank fence of freshly cut timber showed between the trees where that morning there had been nothing but green grass. As he came closer he saw that the fence had only just been started, but that solid tree trunks were planted as posts to mark out its whole line and a tall gate with a raised walkway for a lookout was already finished. That morning there had been a jumble of baggage cast up on an unknown shore; this evening there was Jamestown. His heart warmed in spite of himself at what his people had accomplished. Already the camp had the homelike familiarity that a strange place can instantly acquire when one sets down one's belongings there and has nowhere else to go.

The forest edge was further back than it had been. A wide strip between it and the fence was a wasteland of felled stumps, with only the wispy rejected trees still standing among reared roots, craters and clods of earth. John Smith stood looking at it and remembered the little mark he had made with his knife on the tree beside the waterfall. The cold emptiness of fatigue and hunger in him deepened the gulf he felt opening between the two worlds he was now part of. What was the camp? His home or a desolation? He stood for a few more moments summoning his nerve to hail the sentries and commit himself again to the life he knew, but before he could do so someone peered out from the look-out post and shouted to him. He saw a figure hurrying down to the gate to meet him. It was the mate, Christopher Dawkins. John felt unworthily grateful for the welcome, but as soon as he saw Dawkins's face he knew his fears were realized.

'Thank God you're back safely,' the mate said abruptly, drawing him towards the gate. 'We were starting to worry.'

'Of course I'm safe. Never mind that. What happened?'

Dawkins stood still just outside the gate and looked at him sideways. 'You're not going to like it.'

'I dare say not,' said John, feeling a tremor low down in his stomach. 'Just tell me.'

'There's been a fight.'

'The Indians?'

'Yes. They…'

'Anyone killed?'

'No one was hurt, none of ours. At least one of them was, though.' John heard that in spite of Dawkins's concern there was a trace of satisfaction in his voice.

John led the way impatiently in through the gate and towards the watch-fire in the middle of the meadow. He was too furious to speak, but his heart pounded with fear – the fear he should have felt hours before, in his fool's paradise by the waterfall. He had known that this would happen. From the moment he had left Ratcliffe in command he had known. And it would not have happened if he had been there. Never mind that it should not have happened anyway. They would all pay for it and it was his fault.

Half a dozen men were standing and sitting around the fire, which had just been freshly built up and had fish bones and shells thrown on it. All the men sprang to the alert with a look of high relief when they saw John Smith. He barely acknowledged it. 'Lon,' he said, 'go and find Governor Ratcliffe and tell him I'm back. I don't want to be disturbed for the next ten minutes: I'm taking a report from Mate Dawkins.'

'Where's our tent?' he said to Dawkins, turning away.

'Over here.'

There was awkward silence for a few moments as they walked. Then Dawkins said, 'Look, John, I know I'm supposed to report to you, but I won't be much good on this one. I wasn't here when it happened. I was on the ship. I'm only going on what the men said; I hardly saw anything.'

Better and better. 'Tell me anyway,' said John, 'what you can. Make it official.' They went into the tent and sat down under the ridgepole. It was twilight inside. I mustn't treat the men like that, thought John, whatever's happened. They were glad to see me; I should have played on that. Anything to keep up their spirits. Being afraid is no good.

'At about three o'clock in the afternoon…' began Dawkins.

That must have been while I was first sitting with her beside the river, thought John, cold creeping through him.

'... the shooting went on for maybe three or four minutes. Then I heard the men cheering...' Dawkins was saying.

'Sorry. Just tell me the first part again,' said John with embarrassment.

'All right.' Dawkins took a deep breath. 'I was on deck getting ready to unload some of the cannon. Most of the men were on shore cutting timber. There was a lot of noise and shouting anyway, so the first I knew that anything was wrong was a couple of shots. I went to the side to look and saw our men running for their muskets and taking cover.'

'Did you see any Indians?'

'I thought I saw one.'

'How many are there supposed to have been?'

Dawkins half grinned at John. 'Some of the men said dozens, but when I asked how many different ones they'd actually noticed, none of them said more than three.'

'Good work,' said John, sighing. 'Did they fight back once the shooting started?'

'Yes. With arrows. We collected fifteen or so. The men all want them as trophies.'

'So what made the Indians give up?'

'One of them was hurt, I'm pretty sure. Lon Carden was the only man who said he'd been fighting hand to hand with an Indian, and I think I can believe him. He said he saw a man fall and went over to club him on the head, but another Indian wrestled Lon down and a third lifted the one who'd fallen and carried him away. Then all the Indians disappeared and that was it.'

John considered. 'But you don't know who actually wounded the Indian?'

'Right. But everyone was shooting – it could have been anyone.'

'And no one knows what started the fight in the first place?'

Again the mate tightened his lips. 'Everyone says they heard someone shouting "Indians!" or "It's an ambush!", and they rushed for cover. No one said the Indians shot first. And no one will admit to being the first one who shouted. You know what it's like.'

John paused and then asked his last question in a low voice. 'And what was Governor Ratcliffe doing?'

Dawkins answered just as deliberately. 'You'll have to ask him.'

After a moment John stood up quietly. 'Thank you, Christopher. It was just one of those things; I'm to blame for not being here.'

'What did you find?' asked Dawkins non-committally.

'I found the Indian village ... the only one nearby, I'm pretty sure. I was going to go there to parley tomorrow. It'll be even more urgent now. I must go and talk to Ratcliffe about it. What's to eat?'

Dawkins pulled forward a bucket half full of large clams and mussels. 'They're not bad if you just throw them on the fire. The fish's all gone, but I managed to keep these; not all the men would eat them.'

'Thanks. Keep them until I get back if you can. Have you eaten?'

'Yes.'

'Good.'

John Smith bent down to come out of the tent, and found the servant Wiggins hovering a few feet away. 'The governor wishes to speak with you, if you are free, Captain Smith,' he said silkily.

John went ahead without a word, even more irritated than before. To be summoned to give an account of himself, when if anyone should be giving an account it was Ratcliffe! He wished he could have got some food into his belly before he had to face this meeting. He was light-headed, and his mind would not work properly: when he tried to think he came up against the blank wall of his anger; he was afraid even to see Ratcliffe in case he lost control of himself. But at all costs he had to keep calm and use his head.

He still had no fixed idea of what he was going to say when they got to Ratcliffe's tent, which had high sides and a pointed roof with a pennant flying from it. The servant went in first, then came out and ushered John in. He does all right for himself, doesn't he? thought John. There were four candles lit on tall candlesticks, needed because the tent was hung on the inside with dark, fine woollen cloth. Half of it was screened off; in the visible part was a carved table, two chairs, two chests, a wooden easel with maps on it, and a pallet for the servant; the floor was covered with rush mats. The air of solid comfort seemed unreal.

Governor Ratcliffe came out from behind the screens.

'Good evening, Captain Smith,' he said. 'We are all glad of your safe return. Will you be seated?'

His voice was perfectly level and affable except for its usual tinge of irony; the rich candlelight showed his face looking as composed as John Smith had ever seen it. John had expected him to take the offensive at once to cover his own failure. He was caught off balance: suddenly he felt like a muddy dog bristling in a strange parlour. He murmured thanks and sat down at the table almost before he knew what he was doing. Ratcliffe sat opposite him.

'Will you take my report first, Governor?' asked John quickly, with constrained politeness, before he could be manoeuvred any further.

'In a minute, Captain, thank you,' said Ratcliffe, half smiling. 'A glass of wine?' He beckoned the servant, who was still hovering.

'No, thank you,' said John.

'Never mind, then,' murmured the governor and pushed bowls containing sweet cakes and raisins in John's direction. The servant bowed and went out. John looked at the bowls: he would have liked to eat like that animal of the girl's, simply tipping them up and pouring the contents down his throat, but in front of Ratcliffe he could not touch them. He would have given a good deal for a glass of wine, but that would not do, either. Funny: the first time Ratcliffe had ever offered him wine was the first time he could not accept it. He knows, too, John thought. He must save gallons of it this way. He gave a sour interior smile, and felt a little more in command of himself.

'Mate Dawkins will have told you of the incident this afternoon,' said Ratcliffe, toying with a raisin.

'The fight with the Indians?' said John stiffly. 'That it occurred, little more. He said he was on the ship at the time. I should be grateful for a fuller account from you, Governor Ratcliffe.'

'Yes, Captain Smith ... you have every right to expect one. I regret what happened.' It seemed to cost Ratcliffe an effort to say the words, and John's anger died down a little. 'A sudden panic ... if the Indians had challenged our men there might have been no bloodshed, but as they approached by stealth it is understandable that somebody feared the worst.'

'What exactly happened?' put in John gently.

Ratcliffe gave one of his more usual impatient glares, but John waited, pretending not to notice, and he eventually answered. 'Indians were seen moving in the bushes near to where the men were cutting wood. Someone shouted a warning and the men went for their muskets and began to shoot. I was consulting with the master carpenter about the line of the defences. I heard the shots and immediately afterwards arrows fell near us. I supposed that the Indians had attacked, and myself took a musket and encouraged the men in their defence. Within five minutes the Indians had made off.' He paused. 'It was not a large affair. I regret that your orders were not followed. But you will appreciate that once the fighting had begun, we had little choice but to press it to a finish.'

John turned this over in his mind. Ratcliffe's conciliatory manner had disarmed him; more than he could afford, he knew. He found it hard to muster the will to question him closely.

'I see,' he said. 'Do we know who first saw the Indians and gave the warning?'

'No one will own to it,' said Ratcliffe, almost with a smile. 'Some say it was one man, some another. Of course once the heat of the moment had passed they remembered your orders and feared being disciplined.'

A flock of sheep, thought John. We should have given far more detailed orders. If you see an Indian: rule one, don't shoot; rule two: quietly alert your companions; rule three ... that's how it's done. I've been working too much with men I picked myself, that's the trouble.

'Well, in a sense it scarcely matters,' he said. 'What's done is done; we must patch it up as best we may. There is a large Indian village about four miles from here, and no others for many miles on this side of the river, as far as I could judge today. Tomorrow morning I should like to take a few men there and try to come to some arrangement. We shall have to be prepared to offer them compensation for what happened today. If they accept it we may still do well.'

'Is that really necessary?' asked Ratcliffe. 'After all…'

'Yes, it is,' said John.

There was a moment's silence. 'I question if you should go tomorrow,' said Ratcliffe. 'Give us time to strengthen ourselves, and let their blood cool. What if they…'

'What if they serve us as we served them?' John finished for him. 'But we'll be walking there openly, not skulking in the bushes.' He paused. 'There is danger, but it is the least dangerous course.'

'Very well,' said Ratcliffe abruptly. 'But in the meantime we must be prepared for an attack. We heard drumming, like signalling, for more than an hour in the afternoon after we had driven the Indians off. They may be preparing something for tonight, or at dawn. You must mount a strong guard.'

'Yes, Governor.'

'And if you do go tomorrow you must take at least twelve men.'

John was so relieved that Ratcliffe had agreed to the embassy at all that he did not choose to argue that point just then.

'And now,' said Ratcliffe, 'tell me what you have discovered today, and I hope it is of importance, for the truth is that when the shooting started you were sorely missed here.'

The sting in the tail, thought John. He gave an account of his reconnaissance overloaded with topographical detail, hoping that the tedium of it would drive any awkward questions out of Ratcliffe's mind. It seemed to work. Even for himself, it seemed to dispel for a moment his insistent impression that what had happened to him that day had changed everything. It may not have been time wasted, he thought. That girl may well have influence: if I made any impression on her, it may help us to win over the others ... But even as he thought it, he knew that his encounter with her would not be fitted into the colonists' plans as easily as that.

He described the village, its buildings and crops, and emphasised the desertion of the country outside it. 'We must not underestimate these people,' he said. 'They are not a rabble: if they all live together, they must be under one command, and it looks as if they can obey orders quickly. You are right about the guard, Governor; there is no time to lose. They will be dangerous as enemies, but as allies they may be very useful.'

Ratcliffe nodded heavily. 'Yes, Captain Smith, I take your point. And so you saw no one all day outside the village? And are you sure you were not seen?'

Under his shrewd glance John felt for a moment as if his implicit lies were as transparent to Ratcliffe as they were to himself. He pulled himself together. 'Well, if I was, I lived to tell the tale.'

'Clearly.'

'Have I your permission then, Governor, to muster the men and mount the guard for the night?'

'One moment. There is one other matter arising from the day's work that you should know of. We had an accident with the woodcutting in the afternoon; one of the men, Kemp, was injured by a tree falling on him. His shoulder is crushed and some ribs broken.'

'These things happen. Has the surgeon seen him?'

'Yes. But there was little to be done; he won't be able to work for a long time. I thought it necessary to discipline the men who were working with him, since their carelessness caused the accident. I had them shackled to trees for the next two hours.'

John stared at him aghast.

'Floggings seemed inappropriate as things are just now,' explained Ratcliffe testily, 'and we cannot lock anyone up or confine them to camp. What would you have suggested?'

'It is for you to enforce discipline, Governor. I was not about to suggest anything,' said John faintly. What was the use of arguing with a man who could do that – impose punishments that would humiliate the men and set them against each other, now of all times? Where would this end? It occurred to him to wish he had never come.

'Who were the men?' he asked, and was a little relieved that Ratcliffe was at least willing and able to give him their names.

The bugler was fetched, and John Smith and Ratcliffe went out together for the muster: it was already half an hour after sunset. As he got up, John changed his mind and unceremoniously palmed a handful of the governor's sweet cakes, eating them as he crossed the camp.

The men gathered round the flagpole and Ratcliffe addressed them from its makeshift platform. No one could have told that he had two serious blunders on his conscience already. He praised the first day's work in ringing tones and spoke of the scuffle with the Indians as if it were a victory. What else can he say now? John asked himself, but his anger revived. Ratcliffe left it to him to introduce the subject of the embassy. When he did so, he noticed the men's eyes widening; they were afraid to face the Indians, more so than they had been that morning. They knew that what had taken place in the afternoon had been a panic, not a victory. If they are scared, it serves them right, thought John bitingly. Let them remember to obey orders next time. But he refrained from choosing which men were to go with him. They would all be feeling braver in the morning. This parley had better go well; God help them if it didn't.

He arranged the watches and asked the carpenter and the quartermaster to organise work and foraging parties for the next day. Then the chaplain said prayers.

'Lighten our darkness, O Lord, and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night …', he ended. There was quite a fervent 'Amen' to this.

By the time the muster broke up it was deep twilight. Clouds were rising in the sky, obscuring the light of the half moon. The camp looked makeshift, its attempts at defence laughable, under the shadow of the dark forest. Owls hooted and the screech of a hunting wildcat, perhaps, sounded from among the trees. John Smith could feel the tide of unreasoning fear creeping among the men. They were used to the enclosed world of the ship; now there was nothing between them and the vast, unknown lands which loomed ever larger in the gathering darkness, a home for nightmares. Despite their tiredness most of the men were still standing in groups outside the tents or around the fires, reluctant to lower their guard enough to sleep. The watches were all huddled together at the gate.

He went over to them and chaffed them into beginning a proper patrol, promising to come back and spend some time with each watch once he had eaten. Then he made his way back to his tent urging those he passed on the way to get some sleep. He felt like an adult soothing the night fears of children. He examined himself for signs of apprehension and was surprised to find none at all. Now that his actions for the next several hours were planned, he felt a new calm and energy. The forest was not strange or terrible to him. Was it not _her_ home, after all? She had shown him that for all its dangers it was filled with peace.


	9. Chapter 9

76

**Disclaimer: in this chapter John Smith, John Ratcliffe, Lon, Ben, Thomas and Wiggins are Disney characters. The rest are my own.**

**Note: sorry I'm not getting back to Pocahontas yet, I will in the next chapter, but there are just a few more ends to tie up in the English camp. Which I have to admit I find easier.**

**Babyb26: thanks very much for the review. I may as well warn you now, I'm basically telling the same story as in the movie and keeping the sad ending – it seems to me that in view of how unhappily the colonial adventure turned out in the end for the Indians, anything else would be forced. But it's not completely hopeless. I haven't read the Kupperman book you mention, but have done a bit of basic research on the Internet, e.g. Wikipedia, about Powhatan society. This remains, however, a fantasy romance. I'm just trying to make the story more plausible, not necessarily more authentic.**

CHAPTER 9

He arrived at his tent alone; Dawkins had gone over to the ship to settle the watch that would sleep aboard. A small fire in front of the entrance had sunk to embers. John scattered the shellfish on it and began retrieving them with a stick and eating them one by one as soon as the shells opened. The chewy morsels tasted good, but did not add up to much compared to the size of the shells and the work of extracting them.

Footsteps stopped close by. 'Captain Smith?'

'Yes?' said John with his mouth full.

There was no immediate reply. He looked up. The man stood just outside the circle of firelight as if reluctant to show his face, but after a moment John recognised him: Treluswell, the brown-bearded farmer whom he had noticed saying goodbye to his wife on the day they had boarded the ship. John stifled a sigh. Not even for a few minutes while he ate was he to get a rest from difficulties of other men's making. This was one of the men who had been shackled by Ratcliffe, and the one of whom John had been angriest to hear it. He had not the heart to send him away in his evident distress, and yet it was not proper that he himself should get mixed up in the matter at all.

'Sit down,' he said rather constrainedly. 'Have you had anything to eat? Want some of these?' He started raking the rest of the mussels out of the fire.

'Thank you,' muttered the man, and sat down heavily, cross-legged. He took one, but did not eat it.

'Well?' said John.

The man tried to speak, but choked.

'It's all right,' said John. 'I know what happened.'

They glanced at each other and John went on:

'Come on, don't take it to heart. A man was hurt. A punishment squares things. It was you that got it this time; it might just as well have been someone else. It's over and done with now.'

'I've been working with trees twenty year,' the man got out. 'No one ever said I didn't look after my mates the same as I looked after myself. Will Kemp was my friend. Now he'll never work again. That's bad enough without – without ...'

'Yes, it's bad. But he won't blame you…'

'Yes, he will. I can't show him my face after this. He'll think it was my fault same as the others…'

'You make too much of it. If there's a punishment everyone has to be treated the same. It doesn't mean…'

'Master Hales wasn't.'

'What?'

'Master Hales was in charge of the job,' said the man, his voice hardening. 'I told him she was a big one and we needed two more men on the ropes to bring her down, and he said there wasn't time. So Will got it. And Governor Ratcliffe asked no questions of Master Hales.' He paused, then gathered courage and said angrily, 'I've never been treated that way and I won't put up with it for no one. Not even for you, Captain Smith.'

John's mind sprang to the alert, as if he himself were braced against the falling tree. 'No, by hell, not for me,' he said sharply. 'What do you think this is? A schoolyard? Is this the time to come whimpering, "It wasn't me, it was him"? If any one of us puts a foot wrong we could all be dead by next week. Is that what you have in mind?'

'I only want what's fair,' said the man sullenly.

John said nothing for a moment, then asked, 'What about the other two? What do they say?'

'Same as me,' said Treluswell quickly.

'I see,' said John. 'Well, you can tell them what I just told you. What's fair can come later. None of you will make the slightest stir about what happened today or there'll be worse than irons to come. Do you understand?'

'Yes,' said the man tightly and started to get to his feet.

'Wait,' said John.

Treluswell stood unwillingly in front of him and John looked up directly into his face. 'Don't do anything foolish,' he went on. 'We are going to need you. You are one of the men I was most glad to have with us, Robert Treluswell, from the day we sailed, and you are still. Nothing will change my opinion. You may take that for what it's worth.'

Treluswell lowered his eyes and stirred the shells on the ground with his foot.

'Today was the first day,' said John more gently. 'There may be years to come. By this time tomorrow we'll know if we can reckon with peace. By next year you may have your own house and your wife and children with you. By then no one will give a rotten fig for what happened today. Look to that. We have to …'

He broke off; Treluswell had turned his back; his shoulders were shaking. 'I'm sorry, man. Don't mind me,' John said after a moment.

The farmer rubbed his sleeve across his eyes and turned back to face John with a twisted smile. 'Every day I've wished I had Margery with me – until today, he said huskily.

Suddenly, to his discomfiture, John felt his own face contract: there had been a stab of feeling inside him. He did not know where it had come from. He half looked away, instinctively ashamed to let it be seen. Then he stood up and put his hand on the other man's arm. 'Yes,' he said, at a loss for further words.

They stood there for a short time. Eventually John said: 'I'm going next to see how Kemp is doing. You want to come with me? Or for me to say anything to him?'

'No, no,' muttered Treluswell. 'Not yet, I mean ...'

'Go and get some rest, then,' John told him. 'Let it go. We can none of us afford to have enemies, not now or for a long time, and Governor Ratcliffe knows it as well as the next man.'

'It's not that,' Treluswell said, still muttering. 'But to make us look like thieves in the stocks ... how can I hold up my head any more?'

'And suppose it had happened to someone else?' asked John. 'What would you be thinking?'

He watched the man's face and saw it clear slightly, as if his mind was taken off his grievance for the first time. At last Treluswell glanced in his eyes and said, almost with surprise, 'Well, I'd probably be thinking it served the bastards right.'

After a moment John allowed himself to smile; Treluswell smiled, smiled more broadly, then gave a cracked laugh. 'That's a mistake you won't make next time, anyway,' said John, laughing too. 'I'd think twice, at least,' said the other.

The joke was soon over. 'Good night,' said John and tried to think of something more he could say, something that would send the man away with the vindication he deserved without undermining the governor. It was impossible. In fact, he had already said too much. In the end he merely asked, 'Do you know which tent Kemp's in?', and Treluswell pointed it out to him.

It was a large one on the edge of camp, and there John found the surgeon mixing a draught for two more men who lay there with the fever several of the crew had had. The two sick men were reasonably comfortable on beds with bases of planks and brushwood, but the injured man was still lying on a rough stretcher on the bare ground. His eyes were closed and his face was dreadful to see; he groaned with every intake of breath.

'He can't lie all night like that,' said John. 'Is there no one to make a proper bed for him?'

'I tried to get someone after it happened,' said the surgeon angrily, 'but the carpenter kept them all at work until sunset, and then I thought – You should have heard what I had to say to him to get these other two off work. There are at least another six men who shouldn't be working.'

John looked hard at him. He was exhausted too. Not a slacker, but not sufficiently practised at getting his way with men driven by Ratcliffe. 'It's too dark to go finding any more wood now,' John said. 'The best thing will be if I move my bed in here and he uses it for the night. Then we'll see what we can do in the morning. And listen – if you have trouble getting a job done, come to me, or if I'm not there ask Mate Dawkins. He'll always be able to find a man for a job like that.' John had already noticed that Dawkins had made no mistake in the matter of their own sleeping arrangements. For himself, it didn't make much odds, as he was not expecting to go to bed until dawn anyway.

He bent over Kemp and touched his hand on the good side. The man's eyes opened reluctantly. 'We are going to make you more comfortable in a few minutes,' said John. 'Bear up. Things can only get better.' The man's face relaxed for a moment in acknowledgment; then he closed his eyes again.

John felt again that inward flicker which he had felt with Treluswell. What was happening to him? He had always been dutifully sympathetic to his men's troubles, but he had never before had these moments of uncomfortably vivid experience of the suffering he was trying to relieve. It was as though the boundaries between himself and other people had lost their firmness. The girl beside the waterfall – she had touched the gnat and the rock, and then touched him; from that light touch something inside him was dissolving. He wanted to cry. Afraid, he did his best to stifle the feeling. There was so much that had to be done. He had no strength to spare for this.

John went thankfully to the mindless task of dismantling and moving his bed, and called Thomas and Ben over from the watch to help him. They came, and stayed to help lift the injured man onto the bed once it had been made up with leather coverings and blankets. Thomas was frightened by the man's pain, but Ben chatted and joked, not obtrusively, but with a warmth that John could see was doing Kemp good. He had a gentle touch too. That was what was needed above all, and John at once arranged for Ben to be at the surgeon's call during the night.

He walked back to the patrol line alone with Thomas. 'So you had your first taste of action today,' he said, angling.

Thomas was his main hope for a candid account of the fight with the Indians, but again he was disappointed. The lad was sunk in despondency.

'I made a mess of it, Captain Smith,' he burst out. 'I don't know if I'll ever make a soldier – doing a thing like that ...'

'Like what exactly?' asked John, suppressing a smile. 'I doubt you changed the issue much, whatever it was.'

'I ...' It seemed Thomas could hardly bear to confess, but at last he did. 'I got a musket ... I was running with it and I looked round and tripped. The gun went off ... it was pointing backwards and ... I nearly hit the governor.'

John was glad it was dark. 'And did he notice?'

'That's the worst of it,' said Thomas, nearly crying. 'I stayed where I was, and when the fighting finished he came up to me and said…' He did not repeat what Ratcliffe had said, but ended: 'He'll never have any use for me after this. How am I ever going to get on if I do something like this on the first day? And after I fell overboard…'

'Now listen, Thomas,' said John, 'you're not the only one to be feeling that way this evening. You can see that, can't you?' They had reached the fence, but John stopped walking before they came up to the rest of the watch. 'Governor Ratcliffe can't afford to be down on everyone who makes a mistake. It's not many men who do gloriously in their first battle.'

'I suppose not,' said Thomas, grateful but clearly unconvinced. John did not blame him. Ratcliffe's displeasure was not so easily forgotten.

They moved on and came upon Lon and another man peering out into the dark between the fence posts.

'Captain Smith,' said the second man, turning round and nudging Lon.

'Captain,' said Lon and saluted. 'It's all quiet so far. And here's the conquering hero back again,' he said to Thomas, thumping him between the shoulders. 'Have you been telling Captain Smith all about your doings this afternoon, Thomas?'

'Oh, shut up,' said Thomas in a high voice.

'Nar, I mean it,' said Lon. 'It was the best shot anyone got off all day. Governor Ratcliffe jumped so high in the air you could see the old _Susan_'s masthead between the frills on his breeches.'

A day before, the others would have laughed at this. Now both Thomas and the other man glared silently at Lon. John pretended not to notice, but he could feel that their embarrassment was not due to his presence alone. The whole atmosphere had changed. Now that Ratcliffe was in command, he had made himself feared.

Lon brazened it out. 'Well, in my place you'd have more reason to feel a fool,' he said. 'I went to catch an Indian and all I got was this.' He rubbed at a graze on the side of his face. 'Lucky I had a helmet on, or my brains would have got an airing.'

'It might have done them good,' said John. 'You all had orders not to fight the Indians. How did such a thing start?'

He saw Lon and his companion exchange glances. 'Well, no one rightly knows,' said Lon cautiously after a moment. 'We were just working and all of a sudden there was shouting and men running all over. Isn't that right, Nick?'

'Yes,' concurred the other.

Thomas seemed about to say something, but after looking from one to other of the men he kept his mouth shut. John cursed inwardly. Something was being kept from him: not out of a wish to deceive him, but for fear of Ratcliffe. Collusion had spread wordlessly throughout the camp: everyone knew or could guess Ratcliffe's version of events and no one was going to contradict it. Only Dawkins would have been bold enough to, and he had seen nothing. Only Thomas might have been innocent enough, but by now even he had grasped how the land lay. And if John's not knowing whatever it was prejudiced the outcome of the embassy ... Oh well, on their own heads be it. At least he himself was not afraid.

'Do you think they'll attack tonight?' asked Lon, swiping at a moth that brushed close by his head.

'I should very much doubt it,' said John. 'It takes such people longer than a day to decide to do anything. Don't forget, we came here expecting to find Indians. They weren't expecting us. They don't know what on earth we are; they must be scared witless.'

'That fellow this afternoon didn't look scared,' said Lon broodingly. 'Not one bit.'

'All the better,' said John. 'Have you ever noticed that a dog's more likely to bite you if he's scared?'

'What's that?' breathed Thomas.

They all looked where he pointed. Something was moving in the shadows of the forest's edge, creeping purposefully forward from one stump to another. It looked more animal than human, but even with their eyes used to the dark they could not guess its size. They all stared, holding their breath, until the creature was near enough to be caught by a stray gleam of firelight.

'It's all right,' said John. 'I saw one of those today. They're harmless; it's probably come looking for scraps.' The raccoon moved out of sight behind the gatehouse and after a minute they heard a tinkle of shells as it searched one of the dead fires for remnants of supper.

'Can you eat them?' asked Lon, moving a hand to his gun.

'For God's sake don't shoot,' said John hurriedly. 'We'll have the whole camp by the ears. You can try setting snares for them tomorrow night if you've the mind. Now keep watch; I hope you'll have a quiet night. I'm going up to the other end.'

At the far end of the line he found three other men with Richard Clovelly, who was in command of the watch. Sir Richard was the only nobleman on the expedition apart from Ratcliffe. About John's age, big-boned with a red face and sandy eyelashes, he looked more like a farmer than the son of an earl, and it had taken John a good while to realise that there was more to his steadiness than stolidity. He reported sleepily but accurately on his watch, but, as John had feared, was unable to give any new information on the Indian attack.

'I was caught short, Captain,' he said with a grin. 'By the time I got my breeches up the whole thing was over.'

'Can't be helped,' said John.

'Tomorrow – about seeing the Indians. I suppose Governor Ratcliffe isn't going?'

'No. We have to keep our trump card up our sleeves.'

'Well then, I'd better come.'

'I should be very glad of it,' said John, heartened.

'I'll leave the talking to you, mind. But I can wear my necklace and look pretty. And watch your back at the same time.'

'Thank you,' said John, sincerely but vaguely. At the word 'necklace' he had suddenly remembered the one that the girl had worn, and the way the plaques of iridescent shell lay smoothly on the skin above her collarbone ... Would he see her next day? And if he did, would it be the same? A village girl among the others, peeping out of their huts at the men strangers – among smells of fish and hides and woodsmoke; her mother pulling her inside ... Perhaps if he did see her, it would make it easier to forget about her. For what could possibly come of it? So he told himself, but he knew that he was wrong. Whatever was coming of it was coming already. There was no turning back.

*****

Governor Ratcliffe sat at his table, with two candles still lit. He had been in his tent for a long time, but made no move to go to bed; he still wore his belt, his chain, his coat and stiff collar, and sat upright, thinking over the events of the day. He pieced together faces and names with everything he had noted and every word he had overheard; who had worked well or badly, the expressions on their faces ... The real experiment was beginning. It would be of great interest to have the same men to deal with over a stretch of months, with no one added and no one taken away. How different from the fleeting world of court, or even of an estate in these unsettled days! None of them could escape his impress. He could study them at leisure and piece them out to fulfil his plans, as a jeweller making a necklace pieces out his little piles of gold and pearls. Yes, gold. Would they find any here? How soon could they begin looking for it in earnest? Gold! Wealth! How could a man like Smith ever comprehend how much one might need it? Damn him and his pussyfooting around with the natives ...

The servant came and stood quietly at the flap of the tent.

'All right, come in,' said Ratcliffe without turning.

'All quiet, sir,' said Wiggins, obeying him. 'There was some whispering around the fire earlier on among a few of the men, but they have all gone in now except the watch.'

He stood at Ratcliffe's elbow; Ratcliffe swivelled round to look at him. 'Any more?'

'Master Treluswell has been to speak to Captain Smith. He laughed at what Captain Smith said to him and they parted with a slap on the shoulder.'

'Hmm. And then?'

'The captain moved his bed into the hospital for Will Kemp. The surgeon says he took Ben Macquarie off the watch to help look after him.' Ratcliffe shifted in his chair. Wiggins continued: 'Then he went with Thomas Rowe to join the watch and he is with them now.'

'I see,' said Ratcliffe after a moment. 'Thank you, Wiggins. That will be all.'

'Would you like any more refreshment, sir?'

'No. I shall retire now and you may go to bed as well. Wake me at dawn, if you please.' He rose heavily and went round the screen to the inner part of the tent, taking one of the candlesticks with him. Wiggins stood still until he was out of sight, and then noiselessly began to clear away plates, cups, notebook and pens, with movements as precise and graceful as they had been the first thing that morning.


	10. Chapter 10

86

**Disclaimer: Most of these characters belong to the Disney corporation in their present form, a few are my own. **

**Note: you see my plot problem now is to get the English to try and meet up with the Indians as any sane colonists would, but somehow prevent them from succeeding.**

CHAPTER 10

A guard was set at Werowocomoco too that night and no one slept well. The air seemed to shake, as if all the spirits far and wide were disturbed by the unknown marauders. When Kocoum's small scouting party had come back in haste in mid-afternoon with one of their number wounded, everyone's fears had been confirmed. Powhatan knew he had to reckon with war.

Kocoum was ashamed and angry. He felt responsible that a man under his command had been wounded needlessly, and this made him rage all the more at the wantonness of the strangers' attack. Now that it was known that they would attack unprovoked, anyone who approached them must be even more cautious than before, and he, who had had the best chance to spy on them, had found out so little.

'There are a hundred and ten of them that we counted,' he said to Powhatan. 'All men, no women or children. And their chiefs drive them like prisoners of war.'

'They must be men of no account,' said Powhatan tautly, 'grey wolves, outcasts from their own people. They have no law.'

'Their chief gave himself plenty of consequence,' said Kocoum. 'Fat as a bear in autumn. He strutted about like a turkey cock.'

'Cowards are the greatest boasters.'

'Not only do they have the weapons that strike at a distance,' said Kocoum, 'they have weapon-proof clothing themselves. I hit the man who was coming for Namontack, full on the head with my axe, and the covering on his head cracked the blade.'

Powhatan glanced at him: Kocoum was brooding, not boasting.

'We will find Kekata,' he said.

They went into Namontack's house, where he was lying on a bed with the shaman tending him. His mother was holding his head between her hands. His brother and sisters stood around helplessly, and their children stared round-eyed from the shadows. Powhatan knelt beside him.

'I was to blame, Chief,' said the wounded man, gasping for breath. 'They saw me. One of them cut himself with his axe and I looked out to see if they bleed the way we do. They do. At least I saw that.' He stopped talking and moved his head restlessly from side to side.

'More of them will bleed for this,' said Kocoum.

Kekata paused from chanting and passing a charmed bundle above the wound. 'This wound is strange to me,' he said.

The twin bones below the knee were shattered, as if they had been struck a blow by some more than human force. The only time Powhatan had seen anything like it was when a man had had his leg trapped under a boulder that had fallen down a high cliff. That man had been crippled for life. So would Namontack be. The evidence of the power that these reasonless creatures could wield filled Powhatan with helpless anger. He had been going to ask Kekata what magic he could weave against the invaders. Now the question seemed childish. Magic would only work hand in hand with law, against creatures who knew the proper fear of the divine powers and their constraints on life. What could it do to men like these, so puffed up with their own power that they defied the laws of nature?

At least there were only so many of them. And their weapons could not be infallible, or all Kocoum's band would be dead. His people would fight them with strength and cunning, but taking the greatest care themselves not to offend the gods.

He was thankful that because of the war against the Massowomecks there were already more fighting men gathered in the village than there would otherwise have been, but they were still not enough. That same afternoon he sent messengers on foot and by water to all his subject chiefs commanding them to send help. Their men, too, would not yet have scattered; their arrows would not have been used up on game, their spears would not have lost their sharpness. They would resent having to give up more strength to war when the harvest season was just beginning, but that would have to be lived with.

He ordered other men to begin building a stockade, and forbade anyone to go out of sight of the village except the chosen warriors who would continue to spy on the white men's camp. He had the warning drums beaten to call in anyone who might still be wandering the land unaware of the danger abroad. While he arranged all this, he was gnawed by anxiety for his daughter. It seemed that she had left the village in the early morning, and in the late afternoon she was still not back. How like Pocahontas, to run off alone in her wild maidenhood to consider the prospect of marriage he had put before her! But today, of all days ... Could it have been only that morning that he had had a whole mind to give to his daughter's marriage?

When she finally returned, not much before sunset, she gave him no comfort for the anxiety she had caused him. She would not tell where she had been, and she listened to the news of the invaders as if she took no interest in it. He almost lost patience. Yet, as always since her mother died, he found he could not speak harshly to her. She was the best reminder he had of Suleawa, and yet was so unlike her – distant, poised to walk away from him into a world that he would never know as a living man. How could he risk fraying the bond of love that already held her to him so loosely? It had not been like that with Suleawa. He remembered the times they had let fly at each other like deadly enemies, and then been surprised by the new understanding that welled up between them when the battle was over. But then Suleawa had come to him freely in the beginning. Pocahontas had not. There was some spirit in her that rebelled against having been born his daughter.

That made his obligation to her all the stronger. People were supposed to feel gratitude and respect towards the ancestors who gave them life, but Powhatan wondered if they should not rather feel this gratitude towards the children who gave that life meaning as they grew old. It had been so easy for him and his wife to bring their girl-child into the world. She had brought them nothing but pride and joy, while they, by begetting her, had condemned her at some time to sadness, pain and death. How could her father do otherwise than try to keep her safe, to guide her into a sheltered path? Though her spirit might seek danger as its own destiny, in some sense the consequences would always be his fault.

*****

The next morning as soon as the sun was high a runner came from the watchers around the white men's camp.

'Ten of them are coming this way,' he told Powhatan breathlessly, 'along the ridge path.'

'How long do you make it before they get here?'

'An hour, perhaps. They have a heavy load to carry, and their weapons.'

Powhatan had been watching the building of the stockade. As he listened he walked away, the messenger still beside him, to find Kekata and the other elders of the village.

'What are they carrying?'

'I couldn't see. Something heavy made of wood; two men at a time are carrying it. They are wearing the clothes that protect them, and they have the weapons that thunder and others too ...' He tried to find a way to describe the others, and failed.

Powhatan had collected the six men he wanted. They all went to the dusty ground within the circle of carved wooden posts at the centre of the village.

'You have heard Opechanc's tale,' he said to them. 'It sounds as if these men are coming to treat with us, after it seemed clear that they wished only to kill. My own thought is that we should have nothing to do with them. The smoke warned us against their gifts yesterday. They made no move to declare themselves; they attacked our watch; and now they must think that we are afraid and will more easily be persuaded to whatever they have planned. We must show them their mistake. What do you think? We must decide quickly.'

'What if we ambush them on the trail?' suggested one man. 'Ten less out of a hundred and ten is something.'

No one agreed. 'It would be foolish, before we know how soon the other warriors can be here,' said another.

Powhatan nodded. 'It must be all or nothing.'

'But how can we avoid treating with them, if we do not attack?' asked the third elder.

'Leave the village,' said Powhatan. 'Let them find no one here. That should make it clear enough to them that they are not welcome, without provoking them to attack us at once.'

'What, leave our village undefended?' said the first speaker incredulously. 'With the corn standing in the fields, and…'

'We will cross the river,' said Powhatan levelly, 'and leave watchers within bowshot. If we have to attack we will still have the advantage. Otherwise, we will return when the strangers leave. What do you say, Kekata?'

'I agree with the chief,' Kekata said to the others. 'It would be wrong to meet them face to face even if they were our own kind: the law says three days must pass after a wounding before the fighters confront each other. If the attacker comes earlier, he insults the victim. Their coming like this shows that they think we are of no account. Coming in such numbers, with all their weapons…'

'They have a totem, too,' put in the messenger, 'some kind of a patterned hide, carried in the air.'

'You see how insolent they are?'

There was a general murmur of agreement. 'And yet,' said one man, 'would it not be wise to hear what they have to say before we make up our minds to drive them out?'

Powhatan looked at Kekata. 'I dare not,' said the shaman. 'Not unless I hear some sign against what I heard yesterday. Whatever flattery or gifts they offer, it will be to our ruin in the end. We must not allow them to trap us.'

'But to let them come into the village unresisted,' protested the first elder again, 'to spy around our holy place, here, as they have already done in the field of the dead ... and what if they take things of ours to work magic on us?'

'We must chance that,' said the chief. 'We must keep watch and see how they conduct themselves. And we may leave them a message.'

'I thought the same thing,' said Kekata. 'You, elders, collect the people and make them start at once. I shall do what must be done here.'

As the elders moved away, Powhatan asked, 'What message will you leave?'

'Only the plain ones,' said Kekata. '"Stranger, you are entering a holy place. Leave an offering and walk on humbly." And the one a messenger takes with him when he demands compensation. All the peoples we have ever dealt with understand those. If these strangers are men at all, they should mean something to them.'

Powhatan nodded doubtfully. He walked down through the village to the landing-place. Lines of silent women, hung about with babies and bundles, began moving into the shallows and taking their places in canoes. Only small children and the very old complained or questioned. The canoes shuttled back and forth across the smooth water; after the women went the men, and last went Powhatan and Kekata, with the three young men who carried the chief's weapons and insignia and the shaman's chest. They took a last look at the village before walking away under the trees, along a clear trail that was nevertheless unmarked and invisible from the opposite side of the river. Powhatan wondered if his move had been wise or foolish. Angrily he asked himself what action could be other than foolish in a predicament like this.

*****

The evening before, with very few words wasted, the chief's sister Nijlon had told Pocahontas to come and share her sleeping quarters, 'and keep that raccoon of yours out of my sight, or I'll have its tail for a cape,' and this morning she and her children were with Pocahontas when the order came for everyone to leave the village, cross the river and go to the northern look-out hill. She went with them as she was told, sullenly but without any idea of refusing. She knew that the order came from her father. After yesterday, he was determined to keep her safe. She knew too that the family, although carefully courteous as always, resented her and resented having to look after her. She did not mind: if it had mattered, she would have found a way to escape them. But at the moment she could come to no decision as to what to do. Her mind was in confusion, too full for thought.

The women sat around her on the leaf-mould under the trees and spread out their sewing. The chief's wife coaxed Nijlon's youngest children, the small prince and princess, to try to weave a mat of grasses. The voices of other mothers could be heard here and there scolding their children not to make too much noise at their play, and not to run off; but most of them were sufficiently scared to need no reminding. Although the people were packed together as if at a festival, it was so quiet the buzzing of the flies could be heard.

Pocahontas had brought some work along, a half-finished cape and a bundle of feathers to stitch to it, but she had even less patience than usual for the finicky task. She kept having to brush away flies, and the shifting sun-spots coming between the leaves spoiled her eye. When her needle broke she abandoned the work thankfully, stood up and began to walk around, although her aunt's hard stare was not lost on her.

The leading men were sitting in a circle at the top of the hill under the high tree that served as a look-out post over the village and river. A little down the slope the fighting men sat in groups, most of them mending or making arrows or spears. Namontack's friends had just finished making him a bed of cut branches with a screen round it to keep sun and flies off. Further on, a group of young boys with too little to do were beginning a well-tried pastime:

'What's that smell?' said the biggest of them loudly, pretending to look round. 'Oh, look, it's Abukcheech. What's he doing here?'

The others joined in with enthusiasm. 'Get further downwind, Abukcheech.' 'That's my tree. Didn't you know? What makes you think you can put your dirty backside under it?'

'I was here first,' said Abukcheech. A small, delicate boy, his attempts to defend himself were always more pathetic than instant submission would have been.

'"I was here first,"' mimicked the ringleader. 'Yes, he made sure he got away in the first boatload when he knew the foreigners were coming.'

'Scaredy cat! Scaredy cat!'

'Look at him! Wearing shoes when he's only got to sit around all day. Afraid the ants'll bite you, Abukcheech?'

'Come on, let's get his shoe.'

Pocahontas started to walk on. The bullying made her sick, but it was not for her to intervene. She was only an unmarried girl. After a scuffle, a moccasin went flying into the air and stuck in one of the branches of the tree above the boys. 'Give that back!' Abukcheech was shouting.

'There it is. Why don't you go and get it?'

'Go on, Abukcheech. It's not far.'

'Nah! He can't climb.'

'Shut your noise,' the wounded Namontack called from his shelter. 'Or come over here and say it. I can't climb either, can I?'

Abashed for the moment, the boys stopped their jeering and sat down. Abukcheech began throwing sticks into the tree in an attempt to bring his moccasin down. At each unsuccessful throw the other boys nudged each other with muffled sniggers, suppressed whenever they felt the eyes of their elders on them.

Pocahontas walked away to the edge of the crowd and sat down, staring away from them across the hillside. What horrible creatures boys were; always had been. Kocoum had been no different, she remembered, although he was so dignified now. Her own elder brother had not been like that; somehow the boys had always seemed to be able to think of something better to do when he was around. But he was dead, killed in his first battle. The chief's wives resented the fact that Powhatan did not do their sons more favours, that Pocahontas and her brother were the only ones who had been brought up in the chief's house. What did they expect when their boys were all like this?

With a rush, her wandering thoughts flowed back into their main channel. The man she had met the day before: he had been different, too. His laughter had not been cruel, but a surrender to joy. She saw again the gentleness in his face and the intent way he had listened to her. How had she ever found it in her to reveal herself to a stranger, a warrior, as she had done? But he had attended to her humbly. Of course she had been his dream, his spirit-guide, no mere girl. She could not see how what had happened could be fitted with the rest of her life. She was just a girl now, insignificant and confused.

He belonged to the army of men who had landed uninvited and desecrated the field of the dead; who had felled trees and stolen food and water, and wantonly attacked the owners of the land who came to keep watch on them. She could not fault her father's actions when she remembered the aversion she had felt on first watching the strangers come ashore. They were a deadly danger, it was clear. If one were a little better than the others, what difference did that make? There were a hundred of them, all ready to take what they wanted. Even the man with the yellow hair: angrily and fearfully, she remembered his slighting look as he showed the mysterious power he could use so lightly, not caring what he destroyed. In return, she had shown him where strength lay for herself and for her people. But what if she had betrayed herself? What if he could somehow use that knowledge against them? The thought sent a chill through her, and she felt the need to huddle close to her people, to hide and protect what she knew. She would stay nearby and reassure her father. She would not even slip off to let Grandmother Willow know what had happened to her. What if she had already taken an irredeemably false step? In any case, she suspected Grandmother Willow would not, or could not, tell her. Her first step had been taken : she had set foot in her path and must follow it alone; only she could find, by groping and blundering, the twists and turns that lay out of sight of the entrance.

There was a stir in the crowd behind her. One of the men who had been left on watch at the riverside was coming up the hill. People moved aside to let him go by, throwing questioning words or glances at him, but he hurried on with an expressionless face. This increased the villagers' expectations and in a few moments everyone was gazing towards the hilltop where he stood talking with Chief Powhatan in a low voice. From the edge of the crowd, Pocahontas watched too. She thought she caught her father's eye for a moment, but nothing in his face spoke to her. As the inaudible talk went on, the tension in the cocked heads and craned necks in front of her gradually drained away. It seemed as if nothing of moment was going to happen after all, and first one and then another of the villagers bent their heads to their tasks again. Finally the messenger turned slowly and went back down the slope, alone. A ripple of mixed relief and disappointment ran through the crowd to where Pocahontas stood. 'Not going to fight yet, then, at least,' she heard the man nearest her say.

Powhatan spoke to the elders and two of them went down and spoke to some of the warriors. Then a few of these men started to move slowly among the people, pausing to talk to each group for some time. There was a message to deliver, but rather than address the people himself her father was having it distributed. That showed two things: that he thought it unsafe to speak aloud, and that there was no hurry. Pocahontas turned her attention away from the slow progress of the speakers, and sat down.

'Unsafe' and 'no hurry'. Those words were the keynote of the day. Everyone had brought some task to do, no one was simply lying and taking their ease as they might well have been if they had stayed in the village, but no one was applying himself to anything as if it really needed doing. The work was there merely to kill fear. The needles stayed poised, the arrow-bindings half wound, while their owners stared at the ground unseeing, the familiar objects in their hands serving only to dull their fear to lassitude. Then they might be seen fingering the protective amulets round their necks or even fetching out and unwrapping packages of secret objects belonging to their guardian spirits, first looking round to make sure no one was watching too closely. Of course everyone there past childhood remembered other times when they had had to leave their homes in a hurry. Pocahontas remembered makeshift camps in the forest, on colder days, with much less to eat than they had with them today, when danger had been more acute than it was now. But at least it had been a danger they understood well, not this alien terror. As if by contagion from the others, Pocahontas felt herself numbed by it, her thought and her very movements slowed down as if by winter cold. She started when she heard one of the elders speak loudly to the group beside her.

'Good news,' he said without conviction. 'Most of them have gone without doing any damage. Only one is still there. We have to wait until he leaves too before we can go back.'

Pocahontas felt her heart beat furiously. Only one left: at once it came into her mind that it must be he. She was so occupied with trying to retrieve at least her outward calm that she did not hear the words of the nearby men, who were beginning to argue with the elder while he answered wearily as if he had been through the same argument several times already.

Now surely was the time for her to slip away and see who the man was who was still waiting in the village. Even if her absence was noticed, what harm could it do, now that the immediate danger was past? Or, failing that, was it not now time to go and confess to her father what had happened the day before, and urge him to speak with John Smith (she ran the name carefully through her mind) if he had the opportunity?

She could not. When she considered speaking of him it was as if she had been struck dumb: she simply could not imagine how she would bring the words out. So unreal, so strange did the events of the previous day seem that they would have to be spoken of in a different language from the one she knew. What had happened to her must be like one of the secret visions of the young warriors, which they were forbidden to reveal to anyone.

Except the shaman. Could she speak of it to Kekata? No, for he was more set against the foreigners than anyone else in the village, and besides he was only concerned with men's magic, not women's.

Come on, she said to herself, you are giving yourself too much importance. Aren't you simply afraid? Afraid that you have done wrong and will be blamed for it? It humiliated her to feel that she was skulking with her secret like a child who fears a beating if he owns up. She had never behaved that way; she had learned very early that it made far more sense to get things over and done with than to try to avoid the inevitable.

She _was_ afraid, she admitted, but of much more besides reasonable anger at her folly. She was afraid of the fact that, in reality, she feared the white men much less than the rest of the people did. She feared only _him_, and her feelings about him. That very fear seemed to have emptied the other strangers of power. They were only dingy, greedy counterfeits of men. What could they do to her? She knew the true, practical answer to that, and knew that not to be afraid was madness and treachery. It seemed to make her yet more helpless to serve her people. It seemed like the absence of an ordinary necessary feeling, as if a hand or a foot had gone to sleep.

And as for what she felt about John Smith himself: that was the very centre of her confusion. It was all very well to talk about secret visions of the spirit world; a good deal of what she felt was much simpler than that. She hungered to see him again because he was so beautiful. She wanted to own his rarity and fineness the way she had collected coloured shells and bright feathers when she was younger. She wanted to have him, and was afraid that she could never be complete and content in herself, alone, again. She did not know whether to be proud or ashamed of these feelings, but she was paralysed by them. What was certain was that she could not find an entrance by which to lead anyone else into the maze of her confusion - any more than she could find a way out of it herself.

So she shifted about at the edge of the crowd, wretched with indecision and full of disbelief that she, of all people, could not think what to do. She blamed herself bitterly. Time was slipping by; surely any action was better than none. Several times she tensed herself as if to set off at a run, only to let her shoulders droop again and to stare unseeingly around her.

'Pocahontas,' said a voice at her elbow. It was Nakoma, bright-eyed with concern. 'Your aunt told me you were over here,' said Nakoma artlessly. 'I've been looking for you. Do you know anything? When are we going back?'

Pocahontas stared at her with dull hostility, as a sick man might watch flies buzzing in his doorway. 'I don't know.'

'Hasn't the chief told you … oh. Is he angry with you? I'm sorry. It's bad, isn't it? My mother shouted at me, just because I went to watch Kocoum and the others trying their new spears over there. She wanted me to help her with the little ones, and then she told me to go away because I was only making them worse ... What's going to happen, Pocahontas?'

Pocahontas drew a deep breath, like a diver coming up to the shallows. The temptation to identify with a simple worry, without responsibility, was too much.

'I don't know,' she said again, but resignedly this time. 'We might as well go and help with the children. It's about all we can do.'


	11. Chapter 11

94

**Disclaimer: Disney characters except the ones that aren't …**

CHAPTER 11

'Well, so now what shall we do?' asked Richard Clovelly, speaking for the other eight men who gazed at John Smith, feeling indignant or ridiculous according to their natures.

'Put everything down and get your breath,' was all John could think of to say. 'It's safe. There really is no one here.'

He could feel that he was crimson in the face. The embassy was an obvious necessity for them all, yet somehow it had become identified with him, and its failure made him personally lose face far more than any of the others. This seemed the very worst thing that could have happened. He had had a premonition of it as soon as they came out on the hillside above the village and saw no one in the fields or among the houses. Even then he had really known that there was no one left, not even a group of warriors lying in ambush; it would have been very difficult to conceal an ambush completely from watchers above the low, scattered buildings, and the village unmistakably breathed an air of deserted peace. But of course they could not risk assuming that it was deserted. So they had taken endless precautions in approaching; had stopped in single file just out of range of the huts for several minutes while John Smith shouted conciliatory words and the herald waved the flag; had refrained, against the inclinations of several of the party, from firing their guns to flush out any ambushers; had circled their way round the edge of the village into the middle, peering behind every hut and keeping their escape routes open; and nothing had happened. Even when they stood in what seemed to be the centre, if the place had one – an open space surrounded by uncouth carved wooden pillars – they had kept up their guard for some minutes, in case the Indians chose this moment to attack from hiding-places among the trees or the fields. Still nothing happened.

Since dawn they had all been nerving themselves for a fight or a confrontation, wondering what sort of men they were going to meet, whether they would find any understanding or, at the other extreme, lose their lives. In proportion to the pitch to which they had screwed themselves and the precautions they had taken, the anticlimax seemed even more of a mockery. It was hard for John Smith not to think that even an ambush from which only one or two escaped alive would have been preferable to this. At least it would have confirmed that their efforts had been necessary. They were all alive and safe and could return another day, but in the meantime he had been made to look a complete fool. He silently cursed everyone and everything: the accusing, perplexed faces that surrounded him; pompous fire-breathing Ratcliffe; the thick-headed natives, refusing to take their best chance of survival; the girl who had seduced him away from yesterday's task; himself, for ever becoming involved in the expedition at all.

'I suppose we've got to carry the whole lot back again now,' muttered one of the men who had been carrying the chest, as he edged his fingers from under it in the dust and straightened up.

'Was this really the place, Captain Smith?' said Thomas Rowe timidly from the edge of the circle.

John came within a hair's breadth of cursing aloud, but a last atom of humour saved him. Good old Thomas; he must have thought someone was sure to say it and it had better be him. Silly young ass.

'You wouldn't think so, would you?' he replied kindly. 'Quiet enough. But just look round.' He stirred a pile of ashes in the middle of the circle with his foot, and smoke rose from a few glowing embers left at its core. 'They must have gone this morning. They must just have decided they didn't want to meet us.'

'Run away,' enlarged Lon, and whistled. 'Well, if it's as easy as that ...'

'It won't be,' said John sharply. 'They'll be back. Depend on it, all this means is that they don't want to make a bargain. Or at least not yet, after yesterday. We shall have plenty more trouble.' He pointed to the partly built stockade which could be seen beyond the houses. '_That_ doesn't look as if they were about to give up.'

'What are we going to do, then?' asked Thomas in a low voice. The question looked further into the future than it had when Sir Richard first asked it. The truth of the matter was starting to come home to them all.

John considered for a moment. 'We'd better take a look round, now that we're here. But not all of us. Lon and Josiah, come with me. The rest of you stay here with Sir Richard. Be quiet and respectful and leave everything as you find it. But study the buildings and the way they lie to the fields and the river. That may be the best use we can make of this visit now.'

'Yes,' said one of the men. 'If they won't stay to talk, Governor Ratcliffe'll be wanting to swat them out of the way with no talking.'

Yes, thought John, he's quite sure to want to, and that's what I'm studying for. Plan of attack. Having a bet each way, are you, John Smith? He said nothing.

The buildings of the village were strange: humped, grey affairs of strips of bark on frameworks of bowed branches, the smallest so low and dark that it was hard to imagine people creeping inside. Those that had fireplaces had nothing more than holes in the roof to let the smoke out. Floors were beaten earth. Yet there was little of the muck and stink of a group of English peasant homes. It seemed to be because there were no animals. No hens' feathers, no pig wallows, no dribbles of cow dung in between the houses, and yet there was no lack of food. Hundreds of huge club-shaped ears of yellow grain were spread to dry on wooden racks. Fish and strips of meat were drying in the sun on frames near the river. Flies buzzed over these and around middens of shells and animal bones. John Smith caught his men, and himself, looking at the food as wistfully as dogs under a table. It was uppermost in all their minds that if the Indians had stayed, they themselves might have eaten well that night.

Their circuit of the village merely confirmed that there was not a soul there. At a landing-place at the river's edge there were a few canoes lying about, but the churned-up silt and shingle showed the marks of many more.

Back at the ring of posts most of the men were standing at watch around the edge, but Richard Clovelly, Nick Gates and Thomas were in the middle, examining something on the ground in front of the central pillar.

'What do you make of this, Captain Smith?' asked Sir Richard. It was an assortment of clay and stone beads of different colours. They had been strung on a thong, but it was broken and some were scattered in the dust.

'Where did it come from?' asked John.

'It was hung on that post,' said Sir Richard, pointing above his head. The top of the post was carved in the form of a beaked, glaring face and stuck with bunches of feathers. 'I hooked it down to have a look but it broke.'

'Oh, why did you have to do that?' cried John softly, kneeling down beside the beads. 'Now they'll be insulted. It must mean something to them. What's the use…' He bit back his words. 'I wonder if we can put this right.'

'Be damned to their idols,' said Nick, poking at the pebbles with his foot. 'Should throw down the lot of them.'

'That's enough,' said John Smith sharply. But, looking at the carved face and its companions casting short black shadows in the late morning sun, he almost felt the same.

He started to gather up the beads, but stopped after a moment sensing that he was making himself ridiculous. He let them fall and stood up. 'It's time to go,' he said. 'But we should leave something. Not all our presents, just a token and maybe something holy, to show that we understand that this is their temple.'

Sir Richard unclasped the chest. 'How much?' he asked. 'Money, or a trinket?'

'This'll do,' said John, lifting out a necklace of silver-gilt links and draping it half idly around the wooden pillar. 'Maybe they'll accept it as payment for the broken one.' A thought struck him. 'There's no gold here,' he said.

'Eh?'

'No gold anywhere. No metal. The temples in Hispaniola were full of gold, the Spaniards said. But here it's all stones and shells.'

'They'll have taken it with them,' said Sir Richard doubtfully after a moment.

'I wonder,' said John. 'Come over,' he called to the men. 'Time to move.'

They crowded round, cautiously beginning to smile and talk. John called them to order again. 'Has anyone got any holy medals, a cross, an agnus-dei or anything like that?'

There was a moment's silence. 'We're not allowed to have them these days, you know that,' muttered somebody.

'Oh come, we're far enough from the courts here,' said John. 'Has anyone got one?'

But nobody admitted to it. In the end John decided simply to leave an extra gift, a small inlaid box with a few silver coins inside, at the foot of the pillar. Some of the men were inclined to grumble at parting with so much when it seemed unlikely they would get anything in return, but they were too eager to be gone to want to make a sticking point of it.

John had been undecided about something all the time they had been there, and came to a decision only when they were almost ready to leave. 'Sir Richard,' he said. 'Will you report to Governor Ratcliffe when you get back? I ought to stay here awhile by myself.'

The men who had already been bending to pick up the chest straightened up, and everyone looked at him speechless.

'I think the Indians are watching us,' he went on as casually as he could, 'and have avoided meeting us because they are afraid; they'll be less afraid of one man alone than of the whole crowd of us.'

'Wait a minute,' said Sir Richard to the men. He took John aside and said in a low voice:

'Captain Smith, don't do this. You're needed. Ten of us, we could cut our way out of an attack, but one man alone ... what if they take you hostage? What are we supposed to do then?'

'Whatever you would have done in any case,' said John. 'But I don't think that will happen. They will want to know us. We must give them time.'

'What am I going to say to the governor?'

'Just tell him what happened. And remind him of my orders this morning. No one is to go out of sight of camp or fire a shot until I get back. Please be very plain about that, Sir Richard: those are battle orders. Don't worry if I'm not back tonight; these things take time. Just wait. If I'm not back by dark tomorrow, then you can suppose that the Indians are holding me prisoner and do as you think best. And please will you take this for me?' He held out his musket to Sir Richard.

Sir Richard took it mechanically, staring hard. 'You're mad, but they all say it works for you. All right, if you must you must.' He turned back to the men. 'Get ready to march,' he shouted, 'we're leaving. Captain Smith is staying here.'

'Go carefully back to camp the way you came,' said John at once. 'God send I'll see you in the evening with better news. Don't be downhearted. Rome wasn't built in a day.'

'Good luck, Captain,' said one or two of the men.

'Captain Smith,' said Thomas suddenly, going red in the face.

'Yes, Thomas?

'Can I stay with you, sir?' he blurted out.

'No,' said John coolly. 'If I needed anyone I'd have said so.'

'But, sir…'

'You heard what I said. Don't think you can dodge a day's work at camp that easily. Get gone, boy.'

Thomas flinched. 'Yes, sir,' he said, shouldered his musket and turned away without another word.

I'll make it right with him later, thought John as he watched the men jostle into order and troop away. I hope he didn't think I really thought he wanted to dodge his work. Though he might want to stay out of the governor's way ... If nothing comes of this, I'll have to do some hard arguing with the governor tonight. Maybe it would have been better to go back and get it done at once, before he starts making plans of his own. But if this works, it'll be much the best. It had better work.

He stayed standing in the ring of posts, looking after his men. They drew out of sight and earshot, and silence settled down. At first he felt a peculiar relief and lightness at being alone again. But an eerie feeling of being watched overtook him almost at once. It could not have been called a feeling of danger, and it did not frighten him. Rather, it made him feel self-conscious. Alone in a place in which he did not belong, he felt as if there must be eyes disapprovingly noting his every action.

The first thing he did was to go back to re-threading the broken necklace. A sense of folly and futility made him want to get it over as quickly as possible: for some reason he wanted more than anything not to be discovered handling those beads. He did his best, but he did not know in what order they had been strung; one bead was broken and after he had tied the ends and hung the string back over the statue's head, he noticed two more that had rolled further away to the feet of another column. He shrugged and did not pick them up.

It would clearly be impertinent to stay in the ring of posts, and besides there was no shade. He withdrew to find a better place to wait. Walking down to the river's edge, he took a drink of water. From there he could clearly see the largest building in the village, on a rise overlooking the water. He went up to it through the barred shadows of a grove of tall, spindly cedar trees. He had glanced into it before; now for a second time he lifted the decorated hide that hung over the doorway, stepped behind it and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim grey light inside. He spent some time gazing at the aisled rows of posts, tensioned as if in a great wooden tent by a network of intricately knotted, plaited ropes. At the far end was a raised platform with a large carved seat against the back wall. He took deep breaths of the acrid smells of smoke and human bodies. This is where they would have taken us, he thought, if they'd wanted to talk. A grand meeting-house if ever I saw one. This is the place to wait. He went back outside and sat carefully down against the wall, near the door.

He felt more at ease sitting decently waiting with his back against something solid than he had done while walking about. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, resting but alert. If they're watching, he thought, they must see now that I mean no harm. If they'd been going to attack they would have done by now. I'm sure they will show themselves. Maybe in about half an hour.

Would they challenge him from far off, or would they be at his elbow before he knew it? Would he see the chief at once, or be questioned by underlings? He tried to imagine the possibilities, but with no real fear of anything worse than embarrassment. He trusted completely in his own charm to turn the encounter his way, and knew there was no point in planning what to say; taking such meetings moment by moment had always worked for him in the past.

However, he had been busy for so long that his mind would not at once stop suggesting tasks. Turned aside from the meeting with the Indians, it wondered what to do later. If he got back that night, he should make sure there was a drier place for all the powder and battle gear, make some time for training next day, see that the sick men were being properly looked after ... Would the mate and Sir Richard think to do it, if he weren't there? Stop, he told himself. You won't forget any of that; you won't get the chance. Keep your mind on where you are.

Then he wondered if it would be a good moment to have something to eat. He had some biscuit with him and began to feel hungry as soon as he thought of it. But would it look disrespectful? How to know? I'll eat in a few minutes, he thought. Not right away. It's not noon yet.

To pass the time he looked over his shoulder at the carvings on the door-posts. They showed heads emerging from stiff half-formed bodies, with faces as glaring and bird-like as the ones on the pillars where they had left the necklace. What can these people's religion be like? he wondered. There are wicked faces on the outside of the church where I grew up, but there are kinder ones on the inside. Or there were, when I was a boy, before the new priest finally got rid of them. I don't know. Maybe if you looked inside most of us you would see that our gods' real faces were still just as bad.

But is this the best they can do? It looks as if they spend all their time afraid, calling on demons or hiding from demons. I am sure _she _is afraid of nothing. Pocahontas. She knows no demons; there was none of that in her face. Yet she is one of these people.

He had been avoiding thinking of Pocahontas all morning. Now he was overrun by a mixture of feelings about her, most of them doubtful and discouraging. How easily they had seemed to meet, alone there at the edge of the forest; but what did it all have to do with this village, silently breathing its complicated, alien life? The face of the bird-god seemed to have replaced the face of Pocahontas in his mind, so that he could not easily recall it. At the same time he remembered her body clearly, and was disturbed by prickings of desire so immediate that he could not imagine how he could have failed to act on them when he was with her. Then he remembered the proud way she had held her head, and how carefully she had said his name, and felt ashamed of himself. Nevertheless, he could not resist a fancy that suggested itself to him, in which she said his name like that over and over again.

Then he fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Disney for the main characters ...**

**Thanks to all reviewers. PocahontasJohnSmithForever and Sunrise19, I am going to include the cornfield scene, of course, but I'm going to tantalise you some more first. This scene is mostly about Thomas's problems and Ratcliffe's style of leadership.**

CHAPTER 12

Back at Jamestown, work on the defences went on, but more slowly than the day before. Everyone was weary, stiff and badly rested. There were one or two more cases of sickness. Everyone, also, was on edge as to the outcome of the embassy to the Indians, and yet relieved that it was taking place – without them. They felt that the real burden of the day's work was on other shoulders, and, in consequence, did not over-exert themselves. Governor Ratcliffe was shrewd enough not to force the pace, although he did make sure that work did not come to a stop.

The men in the embassy returned to camp, feeling uncomfortably as if they had avoided an ordeal only to save it up for later. For Thomas, however, it was the other way round. He had found it easy to set off on the trail in the bright morning light, after a night that had been quiet in spite of all their fears. The glow of importance he had felt at being chosen for the embassy, and at the prospect of being close to John Smith all day, had almost taken away the shame of his blunder in the battle of the day before. To have to turn back so soon, empty-handed, was to emerge from a glorious dream to an uncomfortable reality. He was thoroughly frightened of Governor Ratcliffe, of going anywhere near him or coming to his attention without the captain's protection. He knew that the governor would forget nothing to the disadvantage of those who displeased him. He knew there was something unpleasant in store; not what, or why, but certainly something. The fact that he was far from being the only man in camp in this position was no comfort.

The eight men lined up in front of Governor Ratcliffe while Sir Richard gave his report. The governor asked questions of several of them but did not speak to Thomas, although Thomas felt his eyes. Ratcliffe then had the whole camp called to order and, standing on the platform with Sir Richard Clovelly beside him, gave all the men a bald statement of what had happened.

'The village was deserted, you say, but was it empty?' he then asked. 'Had the Indians taken all their belongings?'

'No,' said Sir Richard. 'They'd left everything. There was a great deal of food, tools, firewood...'

'Food,' said Ratcliffe. 'Now listen to me. We cannot leave Captain Smith alone there; he is in far too much danger. I want thirty men to march to the village straight away and bring him back, if he is still alone there. And also to bring away as much food as they can carry. If the village is still deserted, it is just the opportunity we need to victual ourselves.'

'But, Sir John, forgive me,' said Richard Clovelly, 'Captain Smith gave express orders that no one was to leave camp until he got back.'

'Captain Smith's courage does him credit,' returned Ratcliffe, 'but in this case he has not had enough regard for his own safety. I have to answer for him, and for all of us. I must override his orders. Rest assured that I do not do so lightly. Now…'

'Sir John,' said Richard urgently, 'Captain Smith knew that you would fear for him, but he thought that to avoid war with the Indians was the most important thing of all, and he told me quite plainly ...'

'Thank you, Sir Richard,' said Ratcliffe, 'but my judgment is that we need not fear war with the Indians. They fled from us yesterday and have avoided us today, so clearly they cannot be strong enough to give us battle. It would be madness to waste this opportunity. With plenty of food and a few days to finish the defences, we will be impregnable. They will not be able to defeat us whatever they do, and they will be forced to accept our terms.'

There was a murmur of hopeful agreement from the listeners. Richard Clovelly shook his head unhappily, but even he seemed partly swayed by Ratcliffe's boldness. Thomas was swayed by it; although he felt sure that there must be a flaw in the argument somewhere, he could not at once point it out.

'Who will go?' mused Ratcliffe. 'Not you, Sir Richard ...'

'I'll gladly go, sir,' put in Richard.

'It is good of you, but I don't wish you to go into danger again so soon. Nor you, Thomas Rowe ...' (He thinks I'm no good, thought Thomas bitterly. Captain Smith picked me, but the governor won't.) 'Gates. Do you think you can guide a party back to the village?'

'Yes, sir. I know the way.'

Nick Gates sounded almost eager. It was noticeable, as Ratcliffe picked six out of the first ten men – all but Lon, Sir Richard, and Thomas – to return in their tracks, and told off twenty more to go with them, how much more willing they all seemed than they had done first thing in the morning. This was a raid, a plundering raid. They were far more at home with that than with the prospect of meeting the enemy face to face and asking for peace. A fierce good humour began to emanate from the group, and to spread to all the settlers.

'March all together,' Ratcliffe ordered the party. 'Send scouts ahead when you get near the village, and find out whether the Indians are there. If they are, then go no further; come straight back. It may be that Captain Smith will be able to treat with them peacefully, and if so, we should do as he said and wait until tomorrow evening before we attack. Above all, don't get surrounded; retreat if they come after you, and fire your muskets in the air. That should be enough to drive them back. Shoot to kill only in the last resort. But if the Indians are not there, and Captain Smith is – then leave guards posted around the village and carry away all the food you can. Tell Captain Smith those are my orders, and you will have to answer to me if they are not carried out.'

'And what if they let us take the food, and then ambush us while we're coming back loaded?' asked Sir Richard Clovelly drily.

'You are not going, Sir Richard,' said Ratcliffe. 'But, men, you can surely guess the answer. Drop everything, shoot, and run. But I don't think that will happen.'

Everyone watched while the raiding party ate and drank, took weapons, bundles of sacks and carrying poles, and set off with shouts and salutes. When they had gone, the camp felt a great deal emptier; Thomas had a sense of foreboding about the expedition, and felt more afraid than ever of falling foul of Ratcliffe. Trying his best to give no cause for complaint, he reported to the master carpenter and was given the job of digging latrines.

He went to fetch a shovel from a pile of tools and lumber in a corner of the camp. Beside it, and partly shut in by it, was a hen-run where the few remaining chickens had been put to forage. The coops were piled at one end, covered with sacking. As Thomas passed he was surprised to see someone come out from under it, as if from behind a curtain. It was one of the other young boys, Harry Dean, the one who had nearly lost his master's money at cards on the voyage. When he saw Thomas he started, and quickly moved away from the coops.

'They didn't send you back, then?' he called challengingly to Thomas.

Harry made slighting remarks to Thomas whenever he could. Thomas at once recognised this for one and his temper flared up. 'They didn't send you the first time,' he retorted.

'Yes, well, I'm not Captain Smith's darling, am I?'

'Bet you wish you were,' answered Thomas quickly, but not before he had blushed and even stammered for a moment. He was furious, and disconcerted. A man like Captain Smith wouldn't have favourites. And he, Thomas, wouldn't be the man to curry favour. Or would he?

'Bet you wish you were,' mimicked Harry. 'You think everyone wants to be like you? Little pet!'

'I'd rather that than be like you,' said Thomas, enraged. 'I wouldn't trust you any further than I could spit, and I'm surprised your master does.'

'Who do you think you're talking to?' demanded Harry, stepping up to Thomas with his fists clenched. But he stopped short as they both heard a sound from his coat pocket: a slight but distinctive scraping sound. Harry quickly and gently put a hand to his pocket, which was bulging.

'What have you got in there?' asked Thomas.

'Mind your own business,' replied Harry and pushed him away with the flat of his hand. Thomas recovered his balance and confronted him again.

'You've pinched some eggs, haven't you?'

'What if I have?' hissed Harry. 'You wouldn't tell anyone, would you? Not if you knew what was good for you?' He grabbed Thomas by the coat.

'You're a fool. It's not worth it,' whispered Thomas urgently. 'You'll get found out. You don't know what the governor's like.'

'I'm not going to argue with you, you pious little tyke. I didn't pinch any eggs. You go away and shovel muck and next time you fall overboard, make sure you drown. All right?'

He let go of Thomas and took a step away. Thomas stepped in front of him. 'Go and put them back. You'll only get into trouble.'

Harry pushed him away furiously. 'Stow it, girly,' he hissed. 'You wouldn't know, would you? That while you were gone Governor Ratcliffe ate one of those chickens? Him, and Reverend Brown, and Mate Dawkins, and no one else. And Master Hales said to me that if Governor Ratcliffe could eat chicken, he didn't see why he shouldn't eat eggs. Do you understand now?'

'You mean he told you to – ?'

Just then Governor Ratcliffe's servant, Wiggins, came round the corner of the tent. Thomas saw him first and broke off short. Both boys took a step apart and tried to look unconcerned, but their efforts were wasted.

'You boys,' said Wiggins conversationally. `Please come with me; Governor Ratcliffe wants to see you both.'

Thomas, his heart sinking, fell in with Wiggins at once. Harry, after glancing around for a moment, suddenly broke into a run in the opposite direction. Wiggins made a sign to the nearest workers at the palisade, two of whom began running to intercept Harry; he doubled back, tripped over a guy-rope and fell sprawling. There was a tell-tale crunch. When Harry got up, his coat was dripping. He looked down at it and seemed to think better of running any more.

'Well, there you are,' said one of the men who came up to take his arm. 'What a waste.' 'You blasted young thief,' said the other. 'Come on, now.' Wiggins and Thomas led the way towards the flagpole, Harry and his captors followed. Thomas could hear Harry behind him struggling and shouting, 'Leave go! It wasn't me, it was him! He made me carry them!' With a tight throat, Thomas realized Harry was quite likely to be believed. Squire Hales would stand up for him, and Ratcliffe would take any chance to punish Thomas. He had not expected it to be so soon, or over such a foolish matter.

The boys were made to stand on the platform, a few men sitting around the edge to keep them in place, while almost everyone in camp, drawn by the commotion, gathered round, talked and stared. Eventually Governor Ratcliffe appeared, magnificent and commanding. He climbed up next to the boys and held up his hand for quiet.

'We have here a case of stealing,' he said. 'Stealing food. Five eggs were found in the pocket of Harry Dean, who is now standing here. Is it not strange that while some of our company are risking their lives to bring us the food we need, others are stealing it from one another? By this evening we may all have plenty to eat. That may make this crime absurd. It does not make it any less serious. I hope to impress that upon all of you.'

He turned to Harry. 'Harry Dean, you were found with the eggs in your pocket. What have you got to say?'

Harry, after his breathing space, was able to put on a frank and easy manner. 'Well, sir,' he began, 'I was going to the tool pile to get a bucket when I saw Thomas Rowe coming out of the henhouse. I said, "What have you been doing, Thomas?" He said, "Quiet," he said, "I've got some eggs here and you can have half of them if you'll help me hide them." So I said we shouldn't steal them, 'cause they belonged to everyone, so then he said if I didn't keep quiet he'd say I stole them. So then I said I'd carry them for him because I had a bigger pocket, and he gave them to me and we were walking off. I was just waiting until he didn't suspect and then I was going to run off and give them back to the quartermaster. As God's my judge, sir, that's the truth. But then Mister Wiggins came along and spotted us both so I took fright. That's the truth, sir, whatever he tells you, and may I be judged rightly, sir.'

Thomas listened in disbelief. Why did I never learn to lie like that? he thought. If I could think as fast as he can, it'd be much more useful than telling the truth. A few ironical groans from the men standing closest were the only thing which gave him hope.

Ratcliffe exchanged glances with Wiggins and then turned to Thomas. 'Now you, Rowe.'

Should I agree to his story to save trouble? wondered Thomas momentarily, remembering how boys at school accused of a misdeed used to turn on one another and how shabby it made them look.

He swallowed and began, 'Harry took the eggs, sir. I was on my way to get a shovel and I saw him coming out from the henhouses. I guessed that he'd taken some eggs and I was trying to persuade him not to do it when Wiggins came and told us to come to you, sir. I never had the eggs. You know the rest ... sir.' He finished and stood miserably trying to avoid the eyes of the men standing below.

'That pious little liar,' shouted Harry. 'Listen to him. He makes himself out to be so holy but he'd rat on a friend to save his skin. The little ...'

'Be quiet,' said Ratcliffe sharply, as he stood considering. There was silence for about a minute, broken only by murmurs from the onlookers.

'Thomas Rowe,' went on Ratcliffe, 'what were you doing just before you went past the hen-run?'

Breathing a fraction more freely, Thomas said: 'I'd just been to see Master Dolley to get a job to do, sir.'

'Is Master Dolley here?' called Ratcliffe over the heads of the crowd. The carpenter shouldered his way to the front and stood at the foot of the platform.

'Did you give Thomas Rowe a job?' Ratcliffe asked.

Dour and tight-lipped, Dolley answered, 'Yes.'

'What was it?'

'Digging latrines, sir.' There was a laugh from the men standing nearest, and Harry sniggered.

'About how long ago was that?'

After a long pause, Dolley said, 'Maybe a quarter of an hour ago by the clock, sir.' After another pause he added, as if reluctantly, 'He's not the world's best worker; he'd hardly have had the time to find five eggs.'

'Thank you, Master Dolley,' said Ratcliffe smoothly. He turned to the other boy.

'And you, Harry Dean. What were you doing before you went to fetch the bucket?'

'I was doing a job for Squire Hales, sir,' replied Harry, and for the first time Thomas could hear a breathless, pleading note in his voice.

'What job?'

'Setting his belongings in order in his tent, sir.'

'And had he sent you to fetch a bucket?'

'Yes, sir,' said Harry uneasily. 'To wash some of his gear, sir.'

Squire Hales was found not to be in the gathering, and someone was sent to fetch him. No one except Governor Ratcliffe seemed at ease with this further delay. Men pretended to be about to leave and carry on with their tasks, but no one actually went.

Ratcliffe was more deferential towards the squire, asking his pardon for bringing him into this unfortunate business, but laying weight nevertheless on the need for him to clarify one small matter: what had his servant Harry been doing for the last hour?

Hales was a smallish, wiry man with a sour expression. He looked from face to face of those on the platform, and then said loudly, 'I don't know what he has been doing. I gave him leave about half an hour before the embassy got back and as far as I know he was going to go fishing. If he has got into trouble I am very sorry for it.'

There was silence for a few moments. 'So there we have it,' said Ratcliffe. 'Harry Dean, your master gives the lie to your story, and that points to you as the thief. Have you anything to say?'

Harry, at last, was tongue-tied. Thomas looked at him sidelong. Relieved as he was, he did not like to be cleared in this way. He was quite sure that Harry had spoken the truth when he said that Squire Hales had told him to take the eggs.

There were a few catcalls from the audience. Ratcliffe was drawing in his breath impressively to speak again, when Thomas jumped in with both feet.

'Sir ... Governor Ratcliffe,' he said breathlessly, 'might I speak to you ... just to you ... for a moment? I mean, here?'

He barely dared to glance at Ratcliffe, who looked at him as one might at a worm, but motioned him to the far side of the platform, holding up his other hand for continued silence at the same time. Thomas kept his eyes fixed on the side of Ratcliffe's face. He could smell the perfume on his hair, and the slightly musty scent of his velvet coat.

'Sir, I don't think it was all Harry's fault,' he said quickly in an undertone. 'When I was telling him to put the eggs back, he said Master Hales had told him to take them. I'm just telling you, sir, you don't have to believe it, but I did.'

Ratcliffe did not move and after a moment Thomas stole another look at his face. Ratcliffe was staring at him stonily; his face seemed strangely lifeless, like a model made of putty, the veined eyes without expression. There was nothing especially frightening about the face itself. Then what made the man so frightening?

'If you expect to find favour with me,' said Ratcliffe, 'by bringing me tales like this, you are mistaken. When you are older – if you ever grow much older – then you will learn when you are lucky to get off with a whole skin, and not meddle. Now watch this, and take heed.'

He stepped to the front of the platform again and indicated Harry.

'Harry Dean,' he began resonantly, 'has stolen five eggs. I know what you men have been through. You know even better, of course. On the ship, you had nothing for weeks but biscuit and gruel. I saw how you all bore up, and yesterday when the fish and berries were brought in how you all took your share and no more. But it wasn't enough for young Master Dean. Is he the hardest worker, sick or starving? No, he is young and healthy, has light work and a master to stand for him. Yet he thought he deserved five eggs. Of course, no one will get them now, as they were broken and wasted.'

This brought a few angry shouts from the listeners. Thomas wondered how Ratcliffe had the effrontery to dwell on this side of the case with his belly full of fresh chicken, if what Harry had said was true. But clearly most of the men did not see it in that light. They were much more angry at one of their own rank presuming to take more. And Squire Hales, perhaps, had been angry at not being numbered in the highest rank when he thought he should be. Thomas glanced at Hales. His face wore its usual expression, but Thomas noticed that his hands were tightly clenched.

'We have sick men and injured men in the tent over there,' Ratcliffe was saying, `Matthew Lang, Tom Ryder, Will Kemp who was hurt yesterday. We need them to be well as soon as possible, and they need good food. Did Harry Dean think of that? Did he consider that a man in fever would be left to choke down maggoty gruel because he, Harry Dean, had a better right to five eggs?

'And then,' went on Ratcliffe, 'when his theft was discovered he really showed what he was made of. First he tried to pin the blame on a friend whose only offence was to try to stop him. Then he even tried to put the blame on his master.' Thomas started.

`What do you think of a friend and a servant like that, men? Is he the man you'd like to have with you in a tight place?'

'No!' yelled some of the men derisively. Others yelled, too, but without any words that Thomas could make out. They were crowding close around the platform now.

Ratcliffe lowered his voice slightly, making it confidentially mocking. 'What do you think we ought to do with Harry Dean? What do you think someone like him deserves?'

'Flog him!' shouted someone. 'Throw him to the Indians,' said someone else loudly, and another, 'Let him starve and see how he likes it.'

Ratcliffe pretended to lean forward to listen. 'Yes ... thank you. And now ... silence ... quiet, men. Thank you. Squire Hales. Harry is your servant. Do you have anything to say on his behalf? I assure you it will carry weight with us. Or, if you want to discipline him yourself…'

In a thin voice, Hales answered at once, 'I leave him to you, Governor Ratcliffe. I make no excuse for his disgraceful behaviour. I am sorry for it.'

'Very well, then,' said Ratcliffe. 'Now, listen to me. In the ordinary way, Harry would be flogged. But Squire Hales has handed him to us, and we ought to hand him back in fair condition. And another thing; we have only a hundred men, haven't we? We need every one fit and healthy, even Harry. In a real emergency even he may be useful. So I'm going to let Harry off lightly.' There were some groans from the men at the front, which changed to gleeful shouts and whistles at Ratcliffe's next words. 'In fact, I'm going to give him to you. Now, then,' he wagged his finger, 'gently, men. I don't want you to damage him. But I do want you to teach him a lesson. If I give you Harry now, men, can I count on you to leave him in one piece, but teach him a lesson he won't forget, so he won't think of stealing again?'

The question expected the answer 'Yes,' and got it.

'Very well,' Ratcliffe ended, 'that's settled ... Take him.'

The three or four men who lifted Harry bodily down from the platform and started to carry him off among a jostling, jeering crowd were known to Thomas by name, as they were to everyone else, but he had always left a safe distance between himself and them. Whatever could be said for them, he doubted if they had never taken anything that wasn't theirs. After the ringleaders came most of the men left in camp, nearly all of them grinning and buoyant with expectation. He stood and watched the mob heading past the tents down to the river shore, where they were out of sight.

Ratcliffe turned and Thomas thought for a moment that he was going to speak to him, but with hardly a glance at Thomas he descended from the platform and went over to Mate Dawkins, who had arrived late in the proceedings and stood looking on grimly. Ratcliffe said something to him; the mate nodded and followed the crowd, just as a great cheer went up. Thomas listened for Harry's voice, but could not hear it above the general hubbub.

'Hey! Thomas!' cried Lon, hurrying past. 'Come on, you're missing the fun!'

'I'm not going,' said Thomas.

'What? If he'd had his way it'd be you!'

Thomas waved him away, silently mouthing a curse. He suddenly felt too drained to stand any longer, and sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the platform. Ratcliffe was gone; he was safe for the moment.

Only for the moment, though. Thank God he had escaped the treatment Harry was getting, but things were bad enough. He now had several serious enemies. Harry would bitterly resent the men who were humiliating him, Ratcliffe, and his master, who had left him to fry. But it would be Thomas on whom he worked it off. That was as clear as day. Then there was Squire Hales, who would surely suspect from Ratcliffe's words that Thomas had said something about his part in the matter. And Ratcliffe himself, who had, Thomas was sure, let it slip on purpose. And as if that were not enough, some of the men would certainly suspect that he had taken the eggs, or that he had been to blame for Harry getting caught. How Thomas had hoped to earn a good reputation in the settlement; and now it looked instead as if he was becoming a marked man, with a whole array of grudges against him.

He felt horribly conspicuous in the nearly deserted camp. He wanted to go on with his work, but felt too foolish. Nobody will notice if I'm not working, he thought bitterly; no one else is. So he went to his tent and sat there, hunched with his hands over his ears so as not to hear the noise.

It was nearly an hour before people started to come back and take up their work, talking in subdued voices. Thomas ventured out and found his shovel again. There was no sign of Harry.

'Well, that'll teach the little devil to steal, at any rate,' Thomas overheard one man saying.

'If you ask me, it was a lot of fuss about nothing,' said another, 'when we'll have plenty of food tonight anyway.'

'As to that, I'll believe it when I see it,' said the first.

The foraging party got back an hour later, with John Smith, and few were really surprised to see that they were coming back empty-handed.


	13. Chapter 13

113

**All right, people: I guess the reason I didn't get many reviews for Chapter 12 was that it wasn't very clear where it was going: no Pocahontas and no John Smith. In this chapter at least you'll get John Smith back, and Pocahontas will follow in the next ...**

**Disclaimer: the usual.**

CHAPTER 13

The men slouched into camp and lined up looking as if they were trying to hide behind John Smith. All the others gathered round, too angry and disappointed to trust themselves to say a word. Things had gone badly wrong, and any word that was said might make the disaster indelible. John Smith waited grimly for Governor Ratcliffe to meet him. When he did, they stood silent, staring at each other, for some moments. It was hard to say which of them was angrier. They both seemed about to speak, but checked themselves, remembering what hung upon their not quarrelling outright, especially in front of the men. Eventually Ratcliffe dismissed all the men curtly and motioned John Smith to come to his tent.

They sat opposite each other and waited for the servant to take himself off. John opened his mouth to speak again, but then deliberately waited. Ratcliffe burst out:

'Damn it, Smith – to come back with nothing – what were you thinking of? What happened?'

John, enraged as he had been, was suddenly at a loss for words. Ratcliffe's view

of the matter was so far from his that he did not know where to begin. He said stiffly at length:

'I couldn't believe that you would overturn my orders so quickly, sir. In the morning I was to treat with the Indians as I thought best. I thought it best to wait for them alone, and certainly not to ransack their village. That would have been sheer ...' Sheer madness, he thought, and bit back the word. He was still choked by the disbelief he had felt on waking to see his own men swarming around him, shouting to each other, overturning trestles, sweeping dried fish and heads of corn into their sacks. There they were, thirty of them, acting like a conquering army, with who knew how many Indian warriors close at hand. When he finally got them to stop, he dared not make them stay to set things in order again. He could only make them empty out their sacks, leaving the food in mixed-up heaps on the ground, and then march them out of the village as fast as they could go, bringing up the rear himself to urge them on. He was still tingling with the expectation of an ambush. How could Ratcliffe wantonly risk his men's lives like this, and then accuse him, John Smith, of acting foolishly? Let him explain himself now, John said to himself. I've said enough.

'So,' said Ratcliffe, breathing audibly, 'there was no emergency and no mistake: you deliberately disregarded my orders?'

Fury shot through John like a lightning bolt. 'Yes,' he said, looking straight in Ratcliffe's face. 'After you had deliberately disregarded mine, though I was in command in the place of danger. I believed that to obey your orders might kill us all, and so I disobeyed them.'

And what are you going to do about it? he thought, still facing the governor down. Charge me with mutiny? Take away my command? You can't and you know it. Heaven knows what your game is, but you still need me to play it. ... And so it seemed Governor Ratcliffe thought, for he was silent for a few moments, still staring at John. Then he began again, but the wind had dropped a notch. What had been dangerous anger was now bluster.

'I was told,' he said, 'that you were a man who knew how to seize an opportunity. You went there on an embassy. There was no opportunity of an embassy, clearly. But there was an opportunity to get food. When the only reason we wanted to treat with the Indians was so as to be able to feed ourselves, whyever did you neglect it?'

John stared at him. 'We need to get food,' he said, slowly and carefully, 'not only for the next week or two, but for the next few months at least. We might win one battle, but we won't last long if every man's hand is against us. They will soon find out that we aren't made of steel, if they don't know it already. We wouldn't stand a chance.'

'That is how things seemed yesterday,' said Ratcliffe. 'But today ... they fled from us, Smith, they are afraid of us. We had a chance to catch them on the wrong foot. It was different. If we won a battle, it would be different again. If we won one battle, we could win another. You're a soldier; I thought you understood these things.'

John was silent for a few moments. He saw Ratcliffe's point. He still believed Ratcliffe was wrong. The governor had not seen, as he himself had, the signs of strength and warlike discipline in the Indians; he was overconfident and arrogant and would lead the settlers to disaster if he were not curbed. But none of this was the real sticking point now. It was the girl he had met. She was the real reason, and a reason he could never admit, why, even if he were convinced that an all-out attack would best serve the interests of the English, he did not want to lead one. He was in trouble, and worse trouble was to come.

He heard Ratcliffe begin to speak again in a more persuasive tone, as if he thought that he could best win John over if they put the past behind them. 'Perhaps we can still do it. You have made me look foolish by countermanding my orders, and the men are disappointed at having no food, but ...'

I like that, thought John. Who led the men to expect food when there was no reason for it?

'...if they have some definite action to prepare for, then their spirits will recover,' Ratcliffe was saying. 'We can send scouts this evening to find out if the Indians have returned. If not, then perhaps we can do tomorrow what we should have done today.'

'We should certainly find that out,' said John, playing for time by avoiding the main issue. 'But if anyone goes, let it be me. I don't want to risk any of the others getting caught.'

'And what if you were to get caught, Captain Smith?'

'I wouldn't,' said John. 'But even if I did, they wouldn't harm me. You see, I would know what to do, Governor.'

Ratcliffe gave him a look that was not exactly angry, but ugly – a look of hatred, John thought, and it startled him. 'I think you are too reliant on your own good fortune, Smith,' he said. 'I had to risk those thirty men today to be sure of getting you out. What if the Indians had taken you prisoner, brought you here and tortured you in front of us? What should we have done then? You are very popular among the men, Smith; don't underestimate yourself.'

'I'm not worth thirty of them,' said John, nonplussed. What a ridiculous thing to imagine, his mind said quickly. He can't really think for one moment that it might have happened; he's only covering up for his own foolishness in sending them all into danger.

'I think you're worth thirty of them,' said Ratcliffe dispassionately. 'Some of them probably think you're worth the whole hundred and ten. Keep it in mind, Smith.'

John made an impatient gesture. He felt clearly, but could not put it into words just then, that his whole value to the company was his ability to be reckless. The ordinary soldiering, the training and captaining, could just as well be done by someone else. If he, John Smith, went on taking risks, of course he might be killed, but if he didn't, he might as well not be there. He didn't expect the others to risk anything for him. Of course they liked him, but no more than they liked themselves. To suggest that they might throw up the whole enterprise to save him was idiotic.

'Anyway,' continued Ratcliffe, 'to return to the question of the raid tomorrow...'

John drew breath. 'No, Governor Ratcliffe, there must be no raid tomorrow,' he said.

'What, Captain Smith?'

'I accept what you said, Governor, about sudden actions being likely to succeed, but I believe that things here are not as you understand them. No, please hear me out, Governor. They – the Indians – did not withdraw today for fear of us. They didn't flee. I sat in their village half the day and I know what I saw. They have a stockade half built round the place already. There can't possibly be less than two hundred men there, to do as much as they have done already with stone tools – which is all they have. They haven't given up. My belief is that they were testing us by leaving their village unguarded.'

'No, Smith, that must be a fancy. No one ever ...'

'Sir John, I'm sure of it. If we rob and destroy it, then they will make up their minds that we are enemies. God knows what they will think even now, with the food scattered everywhere, but at least we took nothing. If we had, then, you may be sure, we wouldn't have seen them again until some day at dawn a thousand or so of them burst through our half-built walls, set fire to our tents, and slaughtered us.'

'But the cannon ...'

'They have cover from the trees until close to the camp. They know the terrain. Even if they dare not attack, they can harass and starve us out. They are used to war and they obey their leaders. There is only one way we can survive here, and that is to gain their good will.'

John ended, satisfied that he had said what he believed to be true. Ratcliffe seemed to be affected by his forcefulness, at least to the extent of sitting still and thinking. After a minute he asked:

'I wanted to ask discreetly, not in front of the men, Captain Smith: was there any sign of gold there?'

A little surprised, John answered, 'No, Governor. There were ornaments made of shells, pottery, but no gold or metal of any sort.'

'H'm,' grunted Ratcliffe and sat brooding. After a moment he murmured, 'Perhaps the metals here are too difficult of extraction for the natives. The sooner we can explore, the better ...'

John waited. After another minute Ratcliffe said:

'You said, Captain Smith: attack us, harass us, starve us out. But there is a way to prevent that. Of course that might come to pass if we merely raided and then tried to carry on with our business as if the Indians were not there. But if we attacked first, and succeeded in killing many of them – as well as seizing or destroying their food, and perhaps taking some hostages ourselves – they would not be in a position to attack again very soon. We would gain ourselves a breathing space to strengthen our defences. Then we could seek out other settlements and destroy them too. We could conquer a kingdom in no time. In the end they would come looking for terms, and we could set what terms we chose. A petty raid breeds anger, but a real victory breeds respect. The vital thing is to get that first victory, to attack before they are really prepared. As a soldier, would you not agree, Smith?'

'As a soldier, yes,' said John, bracing himself for another effort, afraid of being cornered. 'But we didn't come as an army; we didn't come to conquer a kingdom. We are a hundred and ten, men and boys ...' (he felt Ratcliffe give him a sudden hard glance), 'not soldiers, just farmers and traders, with as much training and weaponry as is prudent to defend ourselves. If we had wanted to take Virginia by arms, we should have had to come with a very different force.'

'Improvise,' said Ratcliffe. 'I was told you were good at that.'

'Up to a point, Governor,' said John and shut his mouth.

'Very well, then,' said Ratcliffe after a short silence, 'I understand that your advice, as our leader in arms, is to do nothing – to survive on what food we've got, keep to camp, and hope to win over the Indians to friendship some time in the future – whenever they may deign to meet us?'

'Precisely, Governor,' said John smoothly. 'And to that end, next time I try to meet them I shall go alone, or maybe with just one attendant, someone like Thomas Rowe. I believe it may have been a mistake to take ten men this morning; it may have looked like insolence. Anything is worth while just to meet them face to face. Once we do that, once they know we are men, everything else will follow.'

'Exactly the opposite is true, as far as I can see,' said Ratcliffe testily. 'The longer they went on believing we are gods or demons, the better it would suit us.'

`Well, we do not know what they think us,' said John rather hastily, 'but the fact is, Sir John, that yesterday we were agreed on the need for the embassy. You expressed regret to me that our men had come to blows with the Indians. I do not see that what has happened today is reason enough to change our aims so completely. We have been here for two days – two days only. How much should we expect to have achieved in that time?'

He wondered if what he had said would make Ratcliffe flare up again, but Ratcliffe stayed calm. 'We must start as we mean to go on,' he said. 'Anyone who waits a day will wait a month. Need I say it? Every day we wait is another day for our men to go hungry. Four sick today ... only this afternoon I had to have up a young fellow, Dean, for stealing eggs. Every day we wait is another day for the Indians to call more of their rabble together and plan to attack us. If your embassy didn't work today, what hope that it ever will?'

This is the moment, thought John. I mustn't weaken now, of all times. 'Nothing else will work,' he said. 'An attack would be the death of us all – even if the Indians returned to their village and waited for it, which I don't suppose they will. Give me three days to find them and arrange a parley. I am sure that it can be done. If I fail, then we can talk of this again.'

'If you fail, then we may all be dead,' returned Ratcliffe bleakly.

'But I don't intend to fail,' said John.

It had come into his mind that he could look for the girl he had met, and try to arrange a parley through her good offices. He guessed that she was a person who might be listened to.

'We will all stay in camp tomorrow,' he said, 'to reassure the Indians, and let their blood cool. They may even come to us.' It's time I spent a day here to put heart into the men, he thought, and to keep a check on Ratcliffe. Every time I'm away he commits some new piece of folly. 'Then the next day I shall go to the village. If they are not there, I shall look further afield, alone. If I don't find them, then they are sure to find me.'

'And if they kill you?'

'They won't.'

'Very well then, Smith,' said Ratcliffe grudgingly, 'we will try your plan. Three days. But in the meantime, tomorrow particularly, I want you to train the men for an attack, and accustom them to the thought of it. They must not feel we are cowering here helpless.'

John nodded dubiously. He could not find fault with this. 'Yes, Governor.'

'And now,' said Ratcliffe, 'let us go out and show ourselves to the men. We have no supper for them, but we have a plan. That is better than nothing. After this, you go and eat. I think that fellow Macquarie caught a passably big fish. And then we must meet with Clovelly and Dawkins and the others and put it to them, before we tell the whole company at the muster.'

Christopher will agree with me on principle, thought John, and Sir Richard will agree with whoever he thinks is winning the argument. It should be all right, as long as Sir John Ratcliffe stands by what he has just said.

He and Ratcliffe threaded their way among the fence-posts, examining the work with a show of comradeship. Then they walked round and down to the water's edge where the boats lay moored. Here they were alone; a man who had been fishing was gutting his catch out of earshot.

'What's been going on here?' asked John, noticing how muddy and trampled the ground was at the water's edge.

'That boy who stole the eggs, Dean,' said Ratcliffe, 'I got the men to make fun of him and I suppose they pelted him with mud a little. Mate Dawkins stopped them before they got too rough.'

'I see,' said John. He did not want to hear much more about Governor Ratcliffe's punishments.

'Of course,' said Ratcliffe abruptly, 'regarding the Indians, even if we get this friendship and good will we are seeking for, it can only last for a short time. You must know that sooner or later they will be unwilling to give us what we want, and we will have to take it by force. The possibilities of this land are too great to leave it in the hands of a few hunters in skins. Whatever bond we make with them, we'll be playing for time: in a word, cheating them. Surely you see that, Smith?'

'Yes,' said John slowly, watching the distant fisherman.

'And so, it will be more honest, as well as sparing ill-will and suffering, if we defeat them by arms as quickly and completely as possible. And make no distinction of age and sex in doing so. They are all savages alike. They are all in our way.'

'I am not thinking of sparing the savages,' said John angrily. Liar, he thought. And you're protesting too much. 'I am thinking of the good of our men and what they can do. We are not strong enough to conquer the Indians I have seen and we have no choice but to play for time, as you say. And if you are suggesting killing women and children, I will say nothing of the rights and wrongs of it but only of what it would do to our men. When I've seen that done the company that did it has had to be broken up. No commander will trust a body of men who have done such things. We cannot do that here. Whatever happens next year, when new men have come to get fat on the work we do, just now we have to keep our hands clean. As best we can.'

'They're only savages,' demurred Ratcliffe.

'It makes little difference,' snapped John.

Ratcliffe arched his eyebrows. 'I am not proposing any action at this moment. I am only asking you to keep a clear mind about the ends of what we are doing, aside from the means. You must not get soft-hearted, Captain Smith.'

'No,' said John. 'I understand perfectly that we are here in the interests of our King and country. May I have your leave now, Governor?'

'Yes, Captain Smith. Be at my tent in an hour to meet with Sir Richard and the others. And, Smith ...'

'Yes, sir.'

Ratcliffe lowered his voice and spoke with emphasis. 'I am in command of this expedition. Do not forget it. Never disobey my orders again. If you do so, there may be consequences for others as well as yourself. Do you understand me?'

John was taken by surprise. Even as he quickly, and angrily, reasoned this away as an idle threat, it made his skin crawl.

'No, sir, I do not,' he said. 'If you mean that you intend to punish the men who came to fetch me today, then all I can say is that it is unjust. What choice had they?'

'That is my business, Captain Smith. Now: you have leave to go.'

John took a breath to say some more, but decided against it. With a very perfunctory bow, he turned on his heel and went.

He got some fish and ate, but the scene had taken away his appetite. He had won the argument, but it stuck in his throat that Ratcliffe had managed to send him away and keep the last word. He had judged that any more wrangling would be pointless, and as an honest soldier he did not want to undermine his commander's leadership. Ratcliffe had used this to make him look as if he were retreating with his tail between his legs. What a lot of cheap tricks he has, John thought. Cheap tricks and cheap threats. Is that all he knows how to do? Making it look as if I'm afraid of him!

And yet he was afraid of Ratcliffe. Not of anything Ratcliffe might do to him openly – what could he? – but afraid for all the others on the expedition, of what he could do to them by his spite and his misjudgements. More than that, he was afraid of the fact that he did not understand Ratcliffe; that whatever Ratcliffe hatched would be something that John could not foresee; that he would be in the thick of some piece of villainy, and responsible for it himself, before he knew what was happening.

But the meeting passed smoothly, with even Squire Hales, who was usually a great blocker and objector, seeming subdued. Then came the muster. Ratcliffe, to John's slight relief, said no more about measures against the men on the raiding party. The settlers seemed resigned and passively content for John Smith to take on the task of communicating with the natives alone. When the muster was over and the guards were being mounted, John took trouble to go about talking cheerfully to everyone, persuading them that the natives would be friendly once their first suspicions had been overcome. He still hoped that this might be true, but he felt self-conscious. Now that the full tension between his view of the settlers' position and Ratcliffe's had become clear, he felt as if Ratcliffe were watching his every step, ready to interpret anything he did without orders as disloyalty. He refused, for the moment, to think of what followed further from his disagreement with Ratcliffe. They had patched things over; he had three days to find the Indians, exert his charm on them, and get some results; perhaps after all the paths open to him, which had seemed to be diverging so alarmingly, could be brought back into one.

*****

Thomas was in the tent he shared with Lon, Ben and Nick. Only Ben was not there, being over at the hospital. A candle was lit, and Lon was greasing a snare he had made and intended to set overnight at the edge of the forest.

'I hope it works,' Nick said to him. 'I've a real hunger for flesh after seeing all that stuff we had to leave behind this afternoon.'

'Don't count on it,' answered Lon. 'It won't just have to work, we'll have to get to it first. Too many people like pinching food around here, eh, Thomas?'

Thomas sat silent on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched.

'Oh, come on, Thomas,' said Lon. 'We know the right man got caught. The governor's a fair man else he'd have blamed you. You can be easy now.'

'Harry's not going to like me for it,' said Thomas drearily.

'That pipsqueak! We settled him good and proper this afternoon. You don't need to worry about him.'

'I'm more worried about the food,' said Nick. 'I could have shot Captain Smith this afternoon, for saying we had to leave it. Don't know what he thought he was about.'

'Why did you leave it, then?' asked Lon. 'Governor's orders were to take it.'

'Dunno,' said Nick. 'When we got there, we didn't see him right away, so we just started in on packing the food. Then I set eyes on him. Lying flat out, he was, with his head leant against the wall – I thought he was dead for a moment – looked as if he'd had his throat cut. But then he rolls over, gets up and bellows out ... he'd been asleep. Fast asleep, on his own in a place like that. He's a cool customer, you've got to give it to him.'

'Wish he was in charge,' said Lon.

'Quiet,' said Nick and looked warningly at the door. 'I don't know so much,' he went on in a low voice. 'The governor's a hard man to work for but I think we'll get what we came for quicker with him in the lead.'

Thomas made an impatient movement, but said nothing.

'Get our throats cut, you mean,' said Lon.

'Well, you think what you like, but you'd better not say it too loud,' said Nick. 'Have you finished with that thing? Let's go and set it, then. Coming, Thomas?'

'No, thanks,' said Thomas. 'I'm going to bed.'

After the men had gone he got out a pen and sharpened it, and then got ready to mix some ink, but abandoned the job and put everything away again. He couldn't summon the will to write anything. When Lon and Nick got back he was on his bed with his cloak over him.


	14. Chapter 14

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**Thanks, reviewers. Sorry I'm making you wait so long for more JS/Pocahontas moments: but I have to make things good and difficult for them! **

**I thought it would strengthen the story if Kocoum and his marriage with Pocahontas were important to Powhatan politically, as well as personally. Also I hope to show that, although Pocahontas's destiny is obviously to love John Smith, she underestimates Kocoum and he gets a raw deal. It's tragedy ...**

**Disclaimer: Disney characters ...**

CHAPTER 14

Only when it came to going back to the village did Powhatan and his leading men fully realise how large a step they had taken in leaving it. It scarcely seemed to be theirs any more: it was imprinted with the footmarks, the belongings and the sudden wanton incursion of the foreigners.

Why had they done it? For two or three hours the lone stranger left in the village had done nothing, so that Powhatan's watchers across the river and on the slopes had begun to feel secure. Then, suddenly, another large body of men had arrived and without warning begun to ransack the village. A runner took the news to Powhatan and all the warriors quickly moved to the river-crossing, ready to attack. But by the time they got there, the foreigners were leaving all together, in haste and empty-handed. Powhatan called off the attack. Now it remained to try to discern, from the traces of their presence in the village, what manner of men they were and what they could possibly want.

The chief kept most of the people back at first and crossed the river with Kekata, the elders, and a guard of twenty men. They walked among the buildings, silent and angry, seeing the spoilt and disordered food and the overturned racks. Why would anybody do this? To take food to eat because you were hungry, that they could understand – but why this senseless destruction? It never occurred to Powhatan or any of the others that they might be seeing the result of a dispute among the white men themselves.

Kekata took a long breath, like a man about to plunge into deep water, before he went into the circle of posts to see what had become of his message. He walked over to the central pillar and put out his hand to take his string of beads at arm's length. He looked carefully at it, and at the missing beads on the ground, the gleaming gilt necklace lower down on the pillar and the little box at its foot.

'What does it mean?' asked Powhatan quietly after a short time.

'I cannot tell at once,' said Kekata in a thin voice. 'I need more time to divine this. Please keep the people away and leave me here alone for a while.'

'Must we go back across the river, or can I tell some of them to stay and set things in order?' asked Powhatan. He, the high chief, sounded subdued, like a child offering to do a small task to comfort a parent who is in some great trouble.

'Keep them away altogether,' said Kekata. 'This witchcraft may be dangerous. It would be better if they did not come until I have cleansed the place.'

'Very well,' said Powhatan and withdrew.

Kekata sat there for an hour or more, and then roused himself to light a fire, chant before it and sprinkle the pillars with water. At last, when it was near sunset, he gave the word for the villagers to return. They moved quietly among the huts, made up their fires and cooked, tidied their stores, but not with the air of people who were coming back to stay. Powhatan had given the order that they were to abandon the village next morning and sleep in quickly made shelters in various places in the forest until the warriors he had sent for arrived. Only those people who were needed to tend the crops and finish the stockade would go to the village by day. When the new warriors came they would all return there, take council and decide how and when to attack the invaders. Until then they would avoid them.

Kekata was still sitting cross-legged in front of the central post of the sacred circle. Powhatan went alone and sat opposite him.

'It was hard to interpret,' began Kekata, 'because they left no message in signs, but only in things. It is as if they disdain to speak to us, except with blows of a stick, as one does with dogs.'

'Perhaps they know no signs,' suggested Powhatan.

'They know all kinds of signs,' said Kekata, 'but they are not messages. Look at this.' He held out the little box of coins.

'What are these things?' asked Powhatan, opening it. 'Faces ...' He touched one of the coins and drew back his finger, startled. 'It's cold!'

'If you hold it for longer, it grows hot,' said Kekata. 'There must be some power in these. I do not know if we should keep them, or if it would be safer to throw them away or burn them. But they may have done some mischief already.'

'What about this?' asked Powhatan, gingerly picking up the silver-gilt necklace which lay on the ground, snake-like, in front of Kekata. 'It is the same.'

'It was hung round the pillar of the Eagle. It says nothing, you can see; all the links are alike.' Kekata paused and then said: 'It was as if the foreigners had placed their rope round our god's neck.'

Powhatan made a hasty gesture to hush the unlucky words. Nevertheless he kept hold of the necklace and looked at it again. 'I wonder how this work is done,' he could not help saying, half to himself.

'It is no good to us,' said Kekata. 'Our message had been thrown down and broken, and then put together again differently. I could see no sense in the way they had rearranged the signs. But they had left out the sign for "holy" and that for "law". I found them still lying on the ground a little way off. They have made a mock of us.'

'Perhaps it was by chance,' murmured Powhatan.

'There is no chance in these matters,' said Kekata sharply. 'When men handle holy things they always do what it is their fate to do, even if they do not know it. And the way they have treated our food has the same meaning. They have said to us, "We despise your message. We do not need your food. Our ways are otherwise and our power is greater; we need not take what you have, we will simply walk over it."' Kekata's eyes looked hollow in his pale, blotched old face. 'This is a terrible enemy,' he said. 'I am afraid, more afraid than I ever was of the southerners. They only wished to destroy us and take our land. That I could understand. But I do not understand what these want.'

Powhatan stood up, shaking his long cloak loose around him. 'If we were right not to meet them, then it does not matter what they want. They will not get it. We will attack them as soon as we have the strength, and kill them all or drive them back over the sea. Above all, we must not make the people more afraid. I will tell them that the strangers' message was only insolence, and that they left the food because they dared not take it. Perhaps something happened to frighten them, and that was why they threw it all down. Perhaps the gods are fighting for us.'

'Yes,' said Kekata. 'Tell them that. And I will keep these things with me under a strong spell. We may need to look at them again.' He spoke with a show of animation, but Powhatan could tell that under it he was still chilled with fear.

Powhatan sent for his sister, her two eldest sons, and his bodyguard, and went with them all on a progress round the village, reassuring every family and making sure they all understood what they were to do the next day and had what they needed. Afterwards he went to his sleeping hut and sent his attendants out, telling one of them, 'Find Pocahontas and tell her to come to me.'

He sat cross-legged on a mat on the floor, his cloak drawn over his knees, until the girl came and stood in the doorway, facing him and bending her head before she let the door-hanging fall behind her. It was very different from the way she had run to embrace him after the victory feast. He could see that she knew that she had been punished for her recklessness the day before; she felt his displeasure and would neither defy him nor ask his pardon, but would keep her distance until he made a move towards her. It was yet another burden for him, but at the same time his anxiety was soothed by simply seeing her, with the light of the clay lamp glowing on her skin and making brilliant gossamer-threads of the edges of her hair.

'Sit down, my daughter,' he said gently. When she had come and sat down opposite him, he went on, 'I was hard on you today. I am sorry. But there was much to do, and you know how I long to keep you safe, Pocahontas.'

'I know, Father,' she murmured. 'It is good of you.'

She forgave him, but sounded almost absent-minded in doing so. He looked hard at her for a few moments.

'What is in your mind, daughter?'

She blushed, and seemed to be searching for words but to be unable to find them. He had not known her to be at a loss like this for years. At last she said, 'Nothing, Father. But ... had you not more to say to me?'

Perhaps it would come out later, if he confided in her first. He said, 'Yes. I have to take you into my counsel, my dear one. We are all in great danger and we cannot know how many of us will live to see the next moon. If I die, I want you to know what my purposes were.' Pocahontas sat and listened intently without protest. He went on: 'I always told your mother all that was in my mind, and she always helped me to see more deeply. You are her daughter and you deserve no less.'

'But I am not her,' said Pocahontas. 'I still grieve for her, Father.'

'And so do I,' said Powhatan . 'But remember, her spirit is not far from us. It is especially near you, who are her flesh and blood.'

'I cannot fill her place but I can listen,' said Pocahontas restrainedly. 'Speak, Father.'

She was so different from Suleawa. She was always turning a little away from him.

'In a few days' time we must give battle to the foreigners,' he said. 'We must destroy them or they will destroy us; it is certain that they will never let us live here in peace. I believe that we can defeat them, but many of us will be killed. They have fearful weapons and it must be a battle to the end. If too many are killed for us to go on fighting, then you, Pocahontas, must lead the women and children to safety as best you can. You are the bravest, the most resolute. Go inland past the hills, ask for shelter, and warn the chiefs there: rouse them to war.'

She watched him and nodded. He saw with satisfaction how her face quickened as she took the measure of the task and realised how much he trusted her.

'If we win the battle,' he went on, 'but I am killed, then it is a question of who takes the chieftainship. My sister's sons are too young. If one of them becomes chief in name, the chief of Tapahannock will try to take leadership of our alliance, but he will oppress the others if he gets the chance, and then the alliance cannot last.' He paused. 'I want Kocoum to be chief after me, if he lives, with you as his wife.'

She went on looking at him and made no sign at all.

'I did not want to hurry you into marriage,' he said, feeling his voice grow constrained. 'But in these straits we must all do what we can. Kocoum needs you, and the people need you, Pocahontas. You are too old and wise to stay a maiden.'

'Yes, Father,' she said faintly. 'But ...'

'But?' he probed, making his voice playful, and when she still said nothing, he said very gently, 'Tell me what you think, Pocahontas.'

She took a breath and said with sudden boldness, 'I think that Kocoum is not the man you are, Father.'

It was improper, but he was not altogether displeased. 'Nor was I at his age, Pocahontas,' he said, smiling. 'Listen. Kocoum is my cousin, and his father was a chief's brother of the Massowomecks, so he has royal blood on both sides. He is a great warrior, and a man true to his word. The people will accept him. If you would say that he does not see things far off, and dreams no dreams ... then perhaps it is true. But it is not always needful for a chief to do these things. Dreams can be a trap for him. He has his elders and his shaman for that – and his wife.'

Pocahontas said in a low, bitter voice: 'What is it to be a chief's wife? Packed off to the fields again after a year or two, when he takes a new one. And with a child that is neither one thing nor the other.'

Powhatan, the high chief, flinched. This was the heart of the matter. She had accused him of what was the grief of his life, what he knew was unjust to her but could see no help for. It was not his fault that his children had no formal standing, but must rejoin the people. And it was not his fault that despite this, so many men of worth among the Powhatans and their neighbours vied to send him their sisters and daughters, to gain his notice and favour and a link with royal blood. He always did his best for these girls, treating them kindly and sending them back with gifts. None of them was a Suleawa.

'If your mother had lived,' he said tonelessly, 'I would never have sent her away, no matter what custom demanded. 'And Kocoum, I think, will be the same with you. He loves you greatly, and will value your counsel.'

'If I married him,' said Pocahontas, as if thinking aloud, 'then he would protect me ... but he would not listen to me.'

'Don't believe that,' said Powhatan, lowering his voice. 'His love for you is strong.' She gave a very slight toss of her head, as if to shake the hair out of her eyes. 'May I tell him he can come and speak with you tomorrow?' he asked, very low.

Pocahontas brooded, looking at the floor; almost pouted, like an obstinate child. Powhatan felt anger begin to rise in him. It is my fault, he told himself. I ought to have accustomed her to the thought of marriage years ago. It is because I was jealous, because I wanted to keep her with me, that I am having this trouble now. 'Well?' he said.

She looked at him suddenly with clear distress. 'Oh, Father,' she said, 'why would you not meet with the foreigners? Do we have to fight them?'

His first thought was that she wanted to protect him, and, even more, to escape from having to marry Kocoum. He was disappointed in her. 'Are you really a child still?' he asked angrily. 'Of course we have to fight them, and it had better be sooner than later. What are they here for if not to take our land? Why waste time on words?'

She said carefully, 'But if a man has to flee from a forest fire, what is it best for him to do? Should he run in the first direction that comes to mind, or should he stay to consider which way the fire is taking, and which is his best way to water?'

'We have considered the best way,' he answered. 'Considering is one thing, letting yourself be beguiled is another. Do you really think we have anything to gain from talking to them?'

'How can we tell unless we do?' she said in a low voice.

He would have been ready to take her counsel seriously, had he thought that it stemmed from some other cause than a wish to avoid her duty. Even if it did, she was not being frank with him. If she would not tell him the reason for her doubts, how could he understand them?

'Why did the stranger stay alone in the village all that time?' she asked again. 'He put himself in our power. Should we not have trusted him in return?'

'Who says he trusted us? He may have been using some witchcraft. All the more reason to leave the village for a while, until we have our full strength.'

Powhatan looked at her face and a suspicion brushed the edge of his mind. He thrust it firmly away before it could take shape as a thought. His virgin daughter ... it was impossible. Yet if it had not been for the suspicion, he would have asked straight out, 'Do you know anything of these men?' As it was, he could not.

'I ask you again, Pocahontas,' he said, 'will you meet Kocoum tomorrow? Will you bear your part, as I ask you to do?'

She looked at him, gripping her hands together. 'No, Father,' she said softly. 'I cannot. My ... my dream is against it. Mother ...' She stopped short and then went on more calmly. 'Please, Father, believe me. It does not have to be. There must be another way, though we may not see it yet.'

What did she mean by that? Some clear voice had come to her. He was certain of it for a moment, awed and even convinced; he dimly saw the next days, not as a narrow way leading to duties and bitter necessities, but as a doubtful night sky full of stars and clouds. It was only for a moment, though. Then he remembered Kekata's fear, the destruction in the village, all the carefully laid plans that the foreigners, and now his daughter, were thwarting. He grew angry again. If a man at war questioned his duty like this, he, Powhatan, would beat his brains out. Pocahontas's duty was as important as any warrior's, and yet she could shirk it, could look at him with those bright eyes of hers, and there was nothing he could do.

'I see well enough,' he said, 'that you will not obey me. You know I will not force you. There is no more to be said.' He stood up. 'Yet I had hoped ... I had hoped for better than this from you, Pocahontas.'

She understood his signal and got up, too, moving towards the door. 'I hope none of what you fear comes to pass, Father,' she said, with a quiver in her voice, 'and that you live a long time.'

If I die, then why should I care what follows? You can do as you like, thought Powhatan bitterly, but he was too proud to say it. A minute later he was sorry even to have thought it; he had an impulse to follow his daughter, throw his arms around her and say: 'Don't let it trouble you any more, my dearest. What does anything matter, as long as you are content?' He stepped to the entrance of the hut and looked out, but she was already gone. Only his guards stood there.

He waited for a minute to get command of himself, and then beckoned to one of the young men and told him to fetch Kocoum. He had better know at once. Besides, they had other things to speak of.

He sat down again and sighed. What could this dream of the girl's possibly be? Perhaps it would be best, after all, to wait, to see what victory or defeat would bring. He knew that wars often had outcomes that neither side had expected. There might be wisdom in what she said. But it was the evasion, the reluctance to tell him the truth, that troubled him most. It was so unlike her, who had always been honourable to a fault. And how could she go from him so coldly, when every day might be the last they ever spent together?

Kocoum came silently and stood in the entrance. He had to stoop low to pass in, and when he stood straight again the eagle feathers in his hair brushed the roof. He looked every inch a chief, but it was plain that he was not yet at ease with his new rank. He did not sit opposite Powhatan until he was told to do so, and he seemed surprised when Powhatan took a small stone cup of the ceremonial black drink and made him take a sip of it first, before doing the same himself.

'My daughter says she will not receive you,' said Powhatan at once, unemotionally. 'I am sorry for it. You know that this marriage is very much to my mind, and I still hope to bring it about – but we shall have to be patient.'

A flash of anger showed in Kocoum's face, but it grew calm again after a moment. 'Did she say why?' he asked hesitantly.

'Some dream she has had. Nothing I could reason with. But,' he went on, almost without willing it, 'she has a true spirit, Kocoum. It may be that she is right. If we wait for the thought to ripen, it will be a better marriage for you than if we hurry her.'

Kocoum considered this for a good while, as was his way, and then nodded. 'So I would say. I would wait as long as she asked – for any time – if only it were not for the danger upon us.'

'I thought,' said Powhatan, 'that having Pocahontas as your wife would make your task as chief easier. I did not mean that you would not be able to do it without her.'

'You do me much honour, great Powhatan,' said Kocoum. 'I accept it, but I fear it. I have known no chief but you; few of the people have. And I never thought to be chief: the river of our blood flows on to your sister's sons – why would it turn back to me?'

Powhatan had never seen Kocoum admit to any weakness before. He wondered at it, and was a little angry, but moved.

'That is plain,' he said. 'They are too young. I do not wish any other tribe in our alliance to lord it over the Powhatans: none of the others would hold it together as you would. They will follow you because they know that you would die for them without hesitating; you will not seek to turn misfortune to your gain, to trample your rivals or bargain them away to the enemy. There are many who wish to lead us who might do this. But the gods will protect you, as they have done until now.'

Kocoum bowed his head and then said, 'There is one thing only I would ask of you, Chief: do not ask me to hold myself back in battle, and do not send others into the place of danger instead of me. I have always fought in the front and I want to do so still. I could not bear men to say of me, "He made sure that he would live to be chief."'

Powhatan touched him lightly on the shoulder. 'I do not ask that. I do not work the wood against the grain.'

'My thanks, ruler of Powhatan,' said Kocoum. Then, in a troubled voice, he said, 'But I must ask: who will know that I have been chosen?'

Powhatan smiled. 'Never fear,' he said. 'Do you think I would leave you to shout for your chieftainship like a man claiming a lost arrow? My sister and your mother already know. Nijlon is not happy, but she has consented: you will protect her boys and they will still be your heirs. I know this should have been differently done, with a meeting of the chiefs and elders to recognise you first of all, and then a great feast to present you to the people. The time has not been ours to spend. But Kekata knows, and the elders of this village, and they are of one mind with me. Now that I know you have accepted, I will proclaim it to the whole army and people when the new warriors come and we get ready to fight. And if we both live, our victory feast shall be the feast that makes you my heir.'

'They will obey you, but ... Chief, I have never spoken of this before, and you may be angry with me for questioning your word. Forgive me ...' Powhatan made signs for him to go on, and he said, 'You know my father was a Massowomeck, and my mother conceived me when she was a hostage. There are some who will never believe that I am loyal to the Powhatans. You trust me, but what of them?'

'I am not angry with you for saying it,' said Powhatan gently. 'But let me tell you, Kocoum: an honourable man remembers his own shame much longer than anyone else does. It was long ago; people have their own concerns, and have forgotten.' His voice hardened a little. 'Anyone who still whispers such things has evil reasons. You must be harsh with them. No one will blame you for that, as long as you are harsher still to our enemies.'

Kocoum looked at him with a troubled face, and Powhatan guessed his thought. 'Anyone, Kocoum. Even my nephews, or anyone who takes their part. If they try to eat into the wood of our alliance with such talk as that, you must crush them like the wasps they are. If you bear with them then people will believe that, in your heart, you admit that what they say is true. We must not allow of any divisions between Powhatans and Massowomecks and Tapahannocks; they must all become one people if they are to meet the danger that is coming now. To make one out of many, one cannot always be gentle.'

'That is one thing no one has ever said, Chief – that I was over gentle,' said Kocoum proudly, and laid one finger on the scarlet tattoo on his chest. 'But I will care for your nephews, and make them ready to rule after me.'

'I have no fear on that score. Only ... Pocahontas: she has no standing but what I choose to give her, and my sister does not love her. Can you be generous, and protect her when I am dead, even if she will not marry you? If you are good to her, my spirit will always fight on your side.'

'Yes, Chief,' replied Kocoum, and sat there in silence for a few moments. Then he said again, 'Yes. 'But if she will not have me – however many others …' He buried his face in his hands.

'She will marry you,' Powhatan murmured. 'And even if not, time heals such wounds.' But even as he spoke he thought: what if I could not have had Suleawa? Would not all my victories have been ashes without her? Oh, Pocahontas. Do you not feel how much love you have to give?

'I know that you can do your task,' he began again, more loudly. 'And it is not all to be done today, or tomorrow; just now what we have to do is simpler. Tomorrow some of the men must hunt and others fish. Some must trap birds so that we can make more arrows. Some must go on working on the stockade, and watch over the women who will gather food at the village. I want you to be in command of these, and keep them practising their shooting and throwing at the mark whenever they are not busy otherwise. Ten I will send to watch the strangers' camp and make sure that none leave it without our being warned. You will understand why I do not send you with these: not to keep you out of danger, but to be sure that the greatest number grow used to obeying you.'

Kocoum had raised his head. 'I understand, Chief.'

'I will go in the morning, with my family,' said Powhatan, 'and be with the people as they find their places in the forest. I will return to the village in the afternoon. Pocahontas will be with us, and if she changes her mind, I will send to you at once.'

'I thank you, Chief.'

'Now let us rest. The gods be with you, Kocoum.'

Kocoum returned his blessing, rose and bowed low once more before leaving the hut.

Left alone, Powhatan wondered how much longer he might have delayed proclaiming Kocoum his heir if it had not been for the foreigners' arrival. If it were not for this emergency, might Powhatan have waited a few more years to see if after all one of his nephews were ready to succeed him? Whatever their weaknesses, they would have been easier for the subject chiefs to accept without loss of standing. He knew that it would take all his strength of will to make the chiefs, especially Tapahannock, play their full part in the war which was coming, knowing that their next ruler would be Kocoum, the son of one of their old Massowomeck enemies. Kocoum was right to have doubts. And would not his marriage to Pocahontas only make things more difficult for him? How many families would take offence at the distinction given to this one of the chief's children, among so many? Just because she was his favourite. Because he loved her.

A hawk-moth buffeting its way around the hut flew to the light of the lamp, burnt its wings and lay struggling feebly on the ground next to it. Is it an omen? thought Powhatan. Am I the moth, blinded by my own fondness, flying to destroy myself – and my people? Or perhaps the lamp is the foreigners with their shining craft, and the moth is warning me to have nothing to do with them? That would be plain enough. I must go and pray and sacrifice to the spirits; we have no choice but to go into this blindly, and only they can bring us out again safely.

But he found himself thinking again of the chain that was brighter than anything he had ever seen apart from firelight and sunshine on water, and wondering how Pocahontas would look at her wedding with _that_ around her neck.


	15. Chapter 15

**Again, sorry to be distracting you guys in the middle of your finals, but perhaps a bit of light relief does no harm!**

**I promise you, Pocahontas and John will meet again – in the next chapter. There's this long and unwieldy one to plough through first, but I make no apologies. I'm having as many meetings between P and J as in the movie. Any more would make it completely implausible that these two energetic characters would NOT succeed in engineering a meeting between their leaders and making peace, or at least establishing the humanity of each side in the other's eyes, thus preventing the climax from happening. I feel I've had to put artificial difficulties in their way as it is. Meanwhile, enjoy a whole new problem that's emerging for John and Thomas in the English camp ...**

**Disclaimer: the usual.**

CHAPTER 15

In the small hours of that night a summer thunderstorm broke, with deafening thunder and torrential rain. At Jamestown, the men were unable to stay dry in their tents, and the ground underfoot became a morass. The watch had to rout more men out to help keep the stores and the gunpowder dry, and they all stumbled around with flickering lanterns, shouting and cursing, fumbling with knots and slipping in the mud. When day came the storm had died away, but it was still raining steadily, and everyone was in the worst possible temper. At the muster, where they stood with the rain trickling down their necks, wishing to have done so that they could at least get moving if not dry, endless grumbles seemed unavoidable. Mate Dawkins insisted that the master carpenter must come away from building the fort and take care of some repairs on the ship that day, otherwise she would not be safe for a long voyage. Governor Ratcliffe said that they needed to finish the circuit of the fence that day, and the repairs could wait until the next: they had no immediate plans for a voyage anyway, had they? The quartermaster put in that they had not the supplies for a long voyage either. The governor carried his point with some soothing words, and the mate retired, fizzing with suppressed rage. The surgeon said that one of the men with fever seemed likely to die and that Will Kemp was no better. Three more men reported sick, and Ratcliffe and the surgeon argued for fifteen minutes over which of them should be admitted to the hospital and which sent back to work – the sick men standing shivering in the rain while Ratcliffe sat, sleek and dry, under a leather awning on the platform. Captain Smith intervened to suggest that the men should at least be allowed to go to the hospital to eat and rest until the day's tasks were arranged, and this was grudgingly agreed to. Then the men of one tent came forward and claimed that those in the next tent had taken some of their oilcloths while they were asleep, and, encouraged by this, another man said that his knife had been stolen the day before. Eventually Governor Ratcliffe cut these complaints short, whereupon the quartermaster stepped forward again to remind everyone to attend to their bodily functions in the latrines only, wet or no wet, otherwise they would all be falling sick.

John Smith looked around at the sullen faces and knew that there could be no searching for the Indians for him that day. The men had to be taken in hand, otherwise fights would break out before the day was over. He made sure everyone had some hot gruel, with stewed berries to take off some of the mouldy taste. Then he arranged for half the men to work on the building while the other half trained. He, Sir Richard Clovelly and the master gunner led three teams against each other in running, vaulting, and sword drill. The three shouted themselves hoarse, and eventually most of the men stopped slouching and began to compete in earnest. However, as most of them worked better, the poor showing of a small number became more noticeable. A knot of three or four men in one team, in particular, were leaving out parts of the course, deliberately kicking logs out of place and sniggering about it, and barging or tripping their rivals. These were men whom John had marked down as trouble-makers on the first few days aboard ship: Simon Hay, who had cheated Harry Dean at cards, George Drake, and a couple of others. One flogging and a few extra spells aloft imposed by Mate Dawkins had made them a good deal meeker. Now, it seemed, something had happened to revive their spirits. John separated them and made each of them run the whole course alone, with himself, Richard and Samuel Wright the master gunner running alongside shouting at them continuously and flicking birch rods. Then he harangued them at parade-ground pitch for another five minutes. After that, their swagger was considerably lessened, but they still caused trouble in the teams. Some of the men were positioning themselves as their toadies, others were avoiding them. Thus occupied, no one could train wholeheartedly. John was not unduly worried; immediate danger, when it came, tended to get rid of such difficulties; but he did not like it.

The other bad place on the training-ground was around Harry Dean. Harry was morose, standing and staring straight ahead of him all the time he was not taking his turn; even when he was, he made the least possible effort. John shouted at him, too, after which he exerted himself a little more, but not much. The men near him kept their distance, refusing – some ostentatiously – to touch him or speak to him. His clothes were plastered with mud, but so were everyone's by now. John decided that later he must find out the details of what had happened to him and, if necessary, confront Ratcliffe about it. Just then, however, he had to get on with the exercise.

He arranged practice fights with blunted swords, with three pairs of men at a time, passing from one pair to another to comment and demonstrate. It had stopped raining. The governor strolled by to watch, nodded, and then called John Smith aside.

'This is good, but why do you not make them practise their shooting?' he asked.

'I don't want to stir up the Indians,' replied John in a low voice. 'If we fire, they may panic, and take it as a sign that we want to start a fight. I have ordered everyone not to shoot at any game, either.'

Ratcliffe stared and looked as if he were about to object, but then merely shrugged.

'We'll do some gun drill later, now that it's stopped raining,' John conceded, 'but this is no less important.'

Ratcliffe grunted, and John moved back to the scrimmaging swordsmen. Sir Richard Clovelly was hard at it with Ben Macquarie. 'Take that, you filthy heathen,' he bellowed, slashing at Ben's legs.

Ben gave a blood-curdling yell, and waggled the fingers of his left hand above his head like feathers, leaping out of range.

'Coward,' boomed Sir Richard. 'Dirty savage. Crawl away on your belly like the devil your master.'

Ben slipped in under his guard. Sir Richard gave a mock scream. The onlookers laughed and jostled. 'Go on, sir! Spit him!' Richard brought his sword down on Ben's helmet. Ben 'died' grotesquely, and everyone cheered.

As Ben and Sir Richard clapped each other on the back, John found he could not even manage a smile. Had it been only a few days before that he himself could have talked of Indians like this? 'Yes,' he said, as the noise died down, 'but it'll be no laughing matter if the Indians storm us. Then every man will have to show what he's made of in earnest. Let's get back to work.'

'But we're not going to wait for them to storm us, are we?' called Lon.

'I hope not, but we have to be prepared,' said John.

'But we're training to attack them, aren't we?' said someone else.

'Yes, if need be,' said John, non-commitally, knowing that Ratcliffe was listening. 'Now,' he said, 'who'll give me a fight?'

Lon stepped forward and the rest, with gibes and cheers, all formed one circle around them. John fought Lon, knocked the sword out of his hand, then stopped to show how it had been done, took Lon through the moves and got him to disarm John himself. Nick Gates went next; he was a more agile, practised fighter, and John had to work hard to outmatch him. John had always enjoyed this sport wholeheartedly, and a good sword-fight made him as happy as anything else he could do. Yet today he was only able to go on with an effort. The truth was that he was tired of the whole business: tired of whipping up comradeship and high spirits in men who were lonely exiles, far away from all that had bound them into life. Even the most trivial-minded among them, the ones who would be just as much fools and just as ignorant of their own folly in London or in Cathay, must know in their hearts that here their usual selves were matchwood floating on dark unknown seas. How many of them had a notion of what they were doing here strong enough to hold on to, and not to give way to delusion, or panic, or to be swayed in any direction Ratcliffe chose? Had he? Yes, he had, and his notion was to be with the Indian girl, among the tall trees, and had nothing to do with the men he was supposed to be leading.

He could not raise the spirit to single out one of the trouble-makers for a fight, although he knew that he should. Instead, at the end of the bout with Nick, he said:

'Now we'll do it differently. The Indians fight with axes, we saw. I want one man to keep his sword while the other takes an axe. The swordsman must try to think of ways to fend off the axeman's blows and get in under his guard.'

Someone fetched John an axe and he tied a piece of leather securely round the edge. 'Did they use their axes two-handed?' he asked Lon.

'Yes ... I think so,' said Lon. 'They didn't have shields, anyway.'

'It might be different when they're in battle, not scouting,' mused John. 'Well, these axes are really too heavy to use one-handed... Even if they do have shields, a steel sword-blade ought to make short work of them. They have no armour, don't forget, so a blow anywhere should do some damage. I'll use both hands, and you swipe at me with your sword, Nick; don't gut me, and I won't beat your head in. Ready?'

They soon found out that the swordsman had an overwhelming advantage, which was reassuring, but then of course they had no idea how to fight with axes; the Indians were doubtless better at it. John suspected the exercise had little value, but he made all the men take a turn. Governor Ratcliffe had long since cleared his throat sceptically and gone back to the building work. Towards the end of the line John came to Harry Dean. He was determined to rouse him, and not to treat him differently from the others.

'Harry, you take the axe,' John ordered. 'Who's your size?... Thomas, you come this side and take the sword.'

He was surprised at how slowly Thomas moved; the boy was not a bad fighter, and had improved greatly since they set out. But he was so good-hearted, perhaps he was reluctant to make Harry a loser again.

'Come on, Thomas!' John called, moving round as the two boys circled each other unwillingly. `Don't give him time, get your blow in first! Come on, Harry, get him before he gets you! It's not a game. Thomas, slash him! That's right!' Thomas had swung his sword with desperate energy and touched Harry's midriff. The blade glanced off the steel corslet Harry was wearing, but he recoiled, fell back a few steps and lowered his axe.

'What's the matter?' asked John.

'The padding's coming loose,' replied Harry, prodding at the axe.

'Let me look,' said John and started round the circle towards Harry. Thomas had his sword pointing to the ground, waiting. What followed happened so fast that John was unable to remember it exactly afterwards. Without a shout or a warning, Harry swung the axe in Thomas's face. Thomas gave a cry and flung his arms up, dropping the sword. John threw himself between the two boys and saw the chopping edge of the axe coming straight at him: the leather padding had been pulled off. He raised both arms to grab the handle, but the blade nicked his arm before he could get a hold and twist it out of Harry's hands.

There were various yells: 'Stop!' 'Get him!' 'The little…' John was left holding the axe as three other men pulled Harry away, twisting, biting and screaming: he seemed to have gone mad. Thomas was sitting on the ground rocking to and fro with both hands held over his face. John crouched beside him and caught him round the shoulders. What quarrel has Harry with him? he thought in bewilderment.

'Thomas,' he said urgently. 'It's all right. Take your hands away, I need to look.'

Thomas's hands came away reluctantly, very bloody. 'Run and get the surgeon', snapped John to the nearest man. He himself threw off his jerkin, ripped off part of his left shirt-sleeve and held it to the gash, trying to swab away enough blood to see exactly what the damage was. He soon realised that the blood dripping from his own right arm was interfering with his efforts. Folding the torn cloth into a pad, he simply held it still, pressing down hard, and kept his left arm round Thomas's shoulders.

'I'll hold this here and the bleeding will stop,' he said. 'You're still in one piece. Can you breathe all right?'

'Yes,' gasped Thomas.

'Is there any bleeding in your mouth?'

'I'm not sure.' He was very shaken, but was managing not to cry.

'Don't swallow it if there is.'

'That's right, look after your pet,' screamed Harry. 'You've no guts to fight the Indians, all you're good for is to coddle him. The little arse-licker. I wish I'd killed him. Can you hear me, Thomas Rowe? I'll get you next time.'

One of the men who were holding him smacked his face.

'That's right, hit me and hug him. You like his pretty face, don't you? Not so pretty now, is it?'

'What shall we do with him, sir?' asked someone in embarrassment.

'Just hold on to him,' said John, keeping down his anger and deliberately ignoring Harry. 'I'll deal with him in a minute. Sir Richard? Will you please take everyone else over there and go on with the practice. Josiah and John Gale haven't had a turn yet.'

'What's going on?' shouted a voice. A man had come over from the palisade to find out what the commotion was about.

'Only a brawl, nothing serious,' said John. 'If the governor wants to know, tell him I can handle it. Then get back to work.'

The man left and the surgeon came. Thomas's bleeding had slowed down. He had a deep cut across his cheek, but no bones or teeth were damaged. When the surgeon told him so, he smiled, and then said, 'Ow.'

'No, better not do that,' said the surgeon and raised him to his feet with an arm around his back.

'I'll come and see you later, Thomas,' called John.

He stood up and at last turned to Harry, looking him over in silence for some time. Harry tried to meet his eyes, but only for a moment. He had let out all his spite for the time being; it seemed gradually to dawn on him who he had to reckon with, and he was deflated.

'Have you got any more to say?' asked John softly.

'No, sir,' muttered Harry.

'All right, let go of him,' said John to the two men who were still holding him. They stepped away and Harry stood with his head hanging, stealthily rubbing one arm.

'Stand to attention when I'm talking to you,' said John. Harry started, and pulled himself straight.

'Have you lost your senses?' said John. 'Here we are in a state of war and you deliberately attack one of your fellows without provocation. What were you trying to do?'

'I was trying to teach him a lesson, sir,' mumbled Harry. 'He's not like you think he is, sir. He's a little sneak. He's pulled the wool over your eyes.'

So that's the story now, is it? thought John. 'What did Thomas do to you exactly?' he pursued.

'It's not what he did to me, sir, it's what he does to everybody. Sucking up to you and the surgeon so that he'll get better than what everyone else gets, begging favours, spying for the governor ...'

'I asked, what did he do to you?' said John crisply.

Harry shifted from foot to foot. 'He sneaked on me to Governor Ratcliffe, sir. He got me caught for taking eggs.'

'Oh,' said John. He did not believe it, but he wished he could have heard Thomas's side of the story first. It was in him to feel a little sorry for Harry Dean. 'And then what?' he said quite gently.

'They all believed him, and they ...' Harry could not say any more, but began to cry noiselessly. His nose was running, too, and he seemed to be afraid to put up his hand to wipe his face.

'All right, stand easy,' said John and turned half away for a minute.

How many more times does this have to happen? he thought. John Smith, the man with the box of salve for bruises given by Ratcliffe. But this boy deserved what he got, at least partly. And he has done damage: he's harmed Thomas, and harmed me too. His mud will stick. I can't afford to be soft with him.

'So, you tried to kill Thomas,' he said conversationally.

'I never, sir,' said Harry uneasily, sniffing. 'I just wanted to scare him.'

'You wounded him severely, and you said you intended to kill him.'

'Did I say that, sir?'

'You did, and a dozen men can swear to it,' said John. 'By law you ought to be hanged.'

There was a silence. Harry eventually looked into John's face, with growing fear and sheer astonishment in his own.

'Yes, hanged,' said John. 'There are laws against stealing and murder, and when you break them there are consequences. Did you think no one would notice? Or that your master would pay for your damage?'

'Master Hales, sir?' asked Harry in bewilderment. 'He wouldn't stand up for me ... Please, sir,' he stammered, now thoroughly scared, 'don't tell Governor Ratcliffe I said I'd kill him. I'm only a boy, sir.'

'You're more than a boy,' said John. 'But you're only a lackey, until you realise that your real master is Harry Dean. At present I don't think he's up to the job.'

'You won't hang me, will you?' cried Harry.

'That's as may be,' said John. 'Now listen. Will you go, at once, to your master's tent and not move from there. I'm going to find him and tell him that from now on he must answer for you, day and night, and if you put a foot wrong we'll send him back to England in irons on the next ship, and, as God's my witness, we will hang you. Is that understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Then get out of my sight.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Harry slunk off. John stood and watched him disappear among the tents. Grateful, him? Not likely, he thought. He will probably despise me for letting him off, and be ready to cause more trouble as soon as he's over his fright. Men like that are hopeless. The only answer is not to have them with you in the first place. I hope at least that Ratcliffe stays out of this ... John became aware of the stiffness in his arm and gingerly rolled up his blood-soaked sleeve to have a look. It was nothing of any moment; it had just about stopped bleeding. He supposed he had better get it washed and bound up, and see if he could beg a shirt from Sir Richard.

At the hospital he found the surgeon putting the finishing touches to bandaging Thomas. Thomas started to his feet when he saw John, and the surgeon gently pushed him down on his stool again. Thomas sat on it heavily, clearly feeling faint.

'Thomas,' said John, going up to him and taking his hand. 'It was my fault this happened. I'm truly sorry to have made you fight Harry. I wouldn't have done it if I had known there was a quarrel between you.'

'It's all right, sir,' muttered Thomas, trying to pull his hand away. 'It wasn't your fault.'

'Not altogether, because you didn't tell me,' said John. 'If anything of the kind ever happens again, you're to tell me right away, before things go this far. Is that clear?'

'But, sir,' said Thomas, stung, 'I need to stand up for myself; I can't just come running to you, or everyone will think ... ' He broke off short and looked at the ground.

'Yes, you can come running to me,' said John. 'And so can anyone else. It's not just you, Thomas. You don't want to pay any heed to what that little devil said. You're a useful soldier and a good citizen of Virginia, and I'm going to back you up, the same as I would anyone else of your quality. Why should I drop you like a hot ladle just because of Harry Dean? Everyone knows the worth of what he says.'

Brave words. But what he's said can't be unsaid.

'Have you finished with Thomas?' John asked the surgeon.

'Yes,' was the answer. 'He'll be all right now as long as he keeps quiet for a while. He was lucky to get off so lightly. He'll have a scar, I'm afraid.'

'I don't mind that,' said Thomas shakily.

John slapped him lightly on the shoulder. 'Maybe you could have a look at this for me,' he said to the surgeon.

The surgeon looked at his arm and nodded reservedly. 'Did Dean do this as well?'

'Yes, but not on purpose. Now, Thomas, you stay here in the hospital. Perhaps the surgeon can find you a job or two to do. I have to go and see about a few things, and then I'll come back and give you something to do for the rest of the day.'

'But, sir, I have to get back to work on the building.'

'Not you.'

'But ...'

'Not another word. You had better be here when I get back.'

With his arm bandaged, he went out and arranged for the men who had been training to change places with the workers. While they were changing over, he took occasion to speak to Squire Hales.

'Your boy Harry is in serious trouble,' he said. 'Yesterday he was caught stealing and just now he has badly hurt Thomas Rowe. From now on I'm going to make you answerable for him. If he offends again you will be sent back to England.'

Hales looked at him sourly. 'The governor has already told me about Dean,' he said, clearly just restraining himself from adding, 'Why should I take it from you?'

If he has already been threatened by Ratcliffe, well and good, thought John, and left it at that.

John and Sir Richard did not train the second group of men as hard as the first; they were already tired from their work. John made that and his bad arm an excuse not to engage in any more fights himself. He was sure that the story of the axe-attack and what Harry had said must be all round the camp already, but no one had much time to mull it over just then. In less than an hour Ratcliffe came and ordered everyone to turn to building: they would all have to work their hardest to finish the walls by nightfall. The day had turned very warm and humid, the ground steaming from the rain; flies were out, buzzing around the men's heads and drinking their sweat, until they were exhausted and tormented to distraction.

John himself set to work as hard as he could to hearten them; so, he was glad to note, did Sir Richard. After another hour, however, he thought he must go and see about Thomas. He found him sitting restlessly with nothing to do, looking sick and slightly feverish.

'Now, Thomas,' he said, 'here's a useful job for you. Go and get your writing things, and then come to the chaplain's tent – it has a table. I'll tell him you'll be there.'

Thomas obeyed. John was waiting for him.

'I know your father's a chart-maker and you want to make maps,' he said. 'You may as well start right now. Here are the notes and bearings I took yesterday and the day before, of the land around here and the Indian village. Can you make sense of them and draw out a rough map? If I'm killed or captured, or if we all have to run away, then at least there'll be something left.'

Thomas was delighted. John spread his tablets out and began explaining what was needed. Thomas listened with concentration and asked intelligent questions. Within a few minutes, far more quickly than he expected, John was intoxicated with the pleasure of being understood, of discovering what someone was really good at and bringing it out of them.

'You see,' he said, 'these are the hills, with the trail we took yesterday. Up here is a tributary river, the…' He bit his lip; he had felt so much at ease that he had come within a breath of saying 'the Chickahominy'. 'The one that has the Indian village on its near bank,' he corrected himself. 'We might call it the James River. It flows out of these hills, and there's a gorge.'

John left him to it; he watched at the tent-flap for a moment as Thomas moved the ruler into place and took up a pair of compasses, with the steady concentrated movements of someone who has no need to prove that he knows his trade. That's the best cure for him, he thought, and it'll be one thing well done, at least.

It was a long, hot, weary afternoon. If it had really been possible for everyone to work at full strength all the time, some of them would have collapsed – but of course there were delays, confusion and mistakes, and most men spent a substantial time waiting to find out what they were supposed to be doing next. Just before sunset they found nothing more could be done until the carpenters finished nailing together the last few sections of the fence; there were unaccountably no nails left in camp and someone had to fetch another barrel of them from the ship, while the master carpenter and Mate Dawkins argued about the waste of nails and the possibility of using wooden pegs instead. Meanwhile the men, forbidden to leave their workplaces, sat around in a bad-tempered daze. John Smith slipped away. There was one thing he needed to find out if he was to go in search of the Indians the next day: was the camp still being watched? If the only way in which he could come at the Indians was to be hauled to their village a prisoner, then so be it, but he would rather get there in his own way, and best of all would be to find Pocahontas first.

He went unobtrusively through the gap in the fence, crept through the undergrowth at the edge of the river for twenty yards, then made his way up the hill towards the trail. As soon as he reckoned he was out of earshot of the camp – given the noise they were making there – he put both hands to his mouth and shouted.

The answer was not long in coming. In moments there was a sharp whiz and a _tock_ like the stroke of a woodpecker in a tree trunk just beside him. He looked: an arrow was stuck there, its feather vibrating.

He jumped behind the tree and looked around, but of course there was no one to be seen. In any case, he had found out what he wanted to know. Back to camp, then, at once: how he was going to get away next day was a problem for later. He ran back downhill like a rabbit, doubling and dodging among the tree trunks. He heard two more arrows, and shouts answering each other from up the slope. He had time to wonder if he had been a complete fool, and what all his men were to do if he were shot dead at this moment, before he plunged into the thick bushes and wormed his way through safely to a point a few yards from the fence.

He waited to get his breath back before sauntering back in through the gap – which, of course, had become no narrower while he was gone. He did not like to imagine the panic if the whole company discovered how near the Indian warriors were. He was certainly not going to tell them. Maybe Ratcliffe guessed, and that was why he was so insistent on getting the fence finished. It was no bad thing to have it done, John had to admit.

The last few sections were raised by the light of the rising moon; quite a few of the men had taken advantage of the darkness to skulk away and rest, and those who were left were too drunk with weariness to take notice. John expected Ratcliffe to call off the muster and let the men rest for a long night, now that they were safe behind their walls. But no sooner was the fence pronounced finished, and the men who had finished it given a muted cheer and then slumped down where they stood, or walked slowly away towards the tents, then the bugler blew a blast and Ratcliffe announced that the muster would follow at once.

He could at least have let them eat, thought John indignantly. True, most of them were so tired that they would hardly notice their hunger. And that was just as well, because there was less food than the day before. Lon's snare had stayed empty. Only two men had been sent to go fishing and they had not caught much. As for shellfish, the rocks and beds near the camp had already been stripped bare. There were thin times ahead, thought John, if they could not get food from the Indians.

As people began to gather in front of the platform, John heard raised voices a little way off, and, immediately afterwards, a couple of men brushed past him at a run, heading for a shadowy knot of bodies that was quickly forming between two tents. John ran that way himself and came to backs set solidly together, their owners waving fists in the air and shouting. It had seemed reasonable to assume they'd be too tired to fight, he thought grimly, and seized a shoulder in each hand to force his way through. Inside the ring of onlookers he found Robert Treluswell and one of the slackers at exercise, Simon Hay, locked together in a wrestlers' hold and staggering to and fro.

Christopher Dawkins arrived at the same moment. He took hold of Simon Hay and John took hold of Robert, and they dragged them apart.

As soon as he was out of range, Hay broke into a snigger. 'Caught by your captain!' he shouted at Treluswell. 'You'll get the irons again.'

Treluswell pulled away from John so fiercely that it was all John could do to hold him. 'You piece of dung! Come here and I'll break your back!'

'Leave him,' said John sharply in his ear. 'It isn't worth it.' He was glad to see the mate put an arm-lock on Simon Hay that made him wince.

'All you men get to the muster! Now!' bellowed Dawkins. 'Shame on you all, brawling at a time like this.'

'Another brawl?' cut in Ratcliffe's chilly, unhurried voice. 'Come to the platform at once, and we shall see what needs to be done to cool your heads.'

Everyone began to shuffle off. 'What happened?' John asked Robert Treluswell in a low voice.

'That useless, bragging ...' Robert choked with rage. 'I was walking over to my tent and he shouts out, "You look as if you've got a ball and chain on your feet now." So I said he looked as if he had all day, the amount of work he'd done, and he goes…' He did not say what Simon Hay had said, but went on, 'Just wait until that swine gets into battle. The Indians'll go through him like butter. Or if they don't, I will.'

'Calm down,' John advised him. 'You'd better not let the governor hear you talking like that.'

'The governor?' Treluswell fell into a morose silence, but after a few moments said unexpectedly, 'You know what it was? It was the governor letting them do what they liked to that boy Dean yesterday. That was what gave him and his gang swelled heads. Before that they knew their place. Now they think they're God Almighty. And I hope he tells them different, quick.'

'Hmm,' said John.

They arrived at the foot of the platform. Ratcliffe began by congratulating the men on their work in finishing the palisade. Then he announced that the next day they would continue their training for a possible attack, while Captain Smith tried to find the Indians and make them understand what was good for them. He kept his speech mercifully brief. Finally, he set the watches for the night's guard, and called Robert Treluswell and Simon Hay in front of him.

'As you two still seem to have enough strength to spare for fighting,' he said, 'you can take an extra watch. You are on duty from now until an hour past midnight, and you had better not let me catch you napping.'

With that he dismissed them, and John, who had had his fists clenched waiting to step in, even in front of the men, if Ratcliffe tried to impose any cruel punishment on Treluswell, remained unwillingly silent. It was a sane, if unfair, punishment, and the farmer seemed to accept it resignedly. Hay, on the other hand, was smirking to his friends as he climbed down from the platform. John vowed to make sure he did his share.

First, however, he had to speak to Ratcliffe. When the muster had broken up, and the men had gone to get their food and to sleep as best they could in their still-damp clothes, he mounted the platform and stepped straight in front of the governor, ahead of the small knot of men who were still waiting to speak to him.

'Well, Captain Smith,' said Ratcliffe. 'Were you going to report to me on that affair between Dean and Rowe this morning?'

'I was not going to trouble you about anything so foolish, sir,' said John in annoyance. 'It seems you already know the facts. Harry Dean attacked Thomas and wounded him. I told both Harry Dean and Squire Hales that the squire will have to answer for the boy from now on, otherwise he will be sent back to England. That is all.'

'And Dean also hurt you, I see, and used insulting language to you?' said Ratcliffe a little maliciously.

'Yes,' said John tightly, 'but that's no hanging matter. He's a fool.'

'You had no business telling Squire Hales what you did without my authority,' said Ratcliffe coolly. There were men in earshot; John was angry. 'Fortunately I had already arrived at much the same decision myself, so I will let it pass.'

'In my opinion, Governor,' said John, raising his voice slightly, 'the mischief was done when you turned Harry Dean over to the men yesterday. Whatever they did to him, he is good for nothing now. All you did was encourage the worst men in the company, men like Simon Hay. You encourage them, and you punish a man like Robert Treluswell.'

'What is Robert Treluswell to you?' asked Ratcliffe.

'To me?' echoed John angrily. 'One of the best men we have with us. Didn't you see how he worked today? He is almost too tired to stand. It was unjust to give him the same punishment as Simon Hay.'

'Captain Smith,' said Ratcliffe, 'you will leave such decisions entirely to me. If I find Simon Hay useful, I will use him. If I find Robert Treluswell insubordinate, I'll punish him, and the same goes for anyone else. I know you have to start early tomorrow, Captain Smith. Unless you have more to say, you have my leave to go.'

'I have one other thing to say,' said John. 'I shall set out before dawn and probably be gone all day. When you train the men, get them to practise with their firearms, standing in ranks, loading, and aiming, but do not let anyone fire. The same as today. Our lives may depend on it.'

'Yes, Captain Smith,' said Ratcliffe with assumed patience.

'And no one is to leave camp,' went on John. 'I know that they need to get food; they can take the boats and go a little way up and down the river, fishing, but that is all. Will you give me your word of honour, Governor, that no one will set foot outside camp tomorrow, whether to go hunting or raiding or for any other reason?'

'Captain Smith, this is not necessary. Who knows ...'

'With respect, it is necessary, Governor. I must have your word that no one will leave camp or fire a gun tomorrow.'

'You are presumptuous,' snapped Ratcliffe. 'I cannot give you my word without conditions. We do not know what may happen tomorrow. I am in charge of the men and cannot have my hands tied.'

'Give me your word, then,' said John, 'that you will keep them all to camp unless there is some unforeseen need.'

'Very well, I give you my word,' said Ratcliffe, and at once turned away to the master gunner, who was the next man waiting to speak to him. John walked slowly away, his stomach knotted with anger.

What was the good of that? he wondered. His word given like that is worthless. If he wants to ignore my orders, he'll invent a reason; look at what happened yesterday. All I've done is make myself look foolish in front of the others. Why keep trying?

He walked away towards the hospital tent, trying to swallow his anger and think calmly about what lay beneath his antagonism to Ratcliffe. It's clear, he thought, that what he really wants is his attack. I wish he could have said so openly right away, and better still before we ever sailed; then I should never have come. If he wants a John Smith attack in a place where John Smith wouldn't attack, then he wants a different captain. But perhaps I should give him his attack and have done with it... His mind started working at it, almost automatically. It would have to be done with thirty or forty men at the most, the daredevils who would answer for themselves. First the feint to distract the attention of the advance guards, then the encircling movement, the musket fire to create a panic ... It could be done, mad though it was. Perhaps he should do it. After all, his duty was to his commander and to the success of the enterprise. That was the only thing about this whole affair that was clear-cut, plain to the outside world. He had been hired as a fighter and he ought to fight. Then he would get home as soon as he decently could and remember, next time, to take only a job where he could make the decisions himself.

Then he grinned wryly at this prevarication. When you have the chance to choose to act rightly or wrongly, are you going to refuse it, to put it off until next time when it'll be easier? Of course next time is always going to be easy. But what you have to deal with is this time. To hell with his attack. If you are such a loyal Englishman, why stop there? Why not lure that young Indian woman into a trap and take her hostage; better still, get her to bring some of her menfolk along and catch or kill the lot of them? Just think of the chances Ratcliffe would see if he knew! But it stinks, and you know it. Stay with what you know.

John suddenly found himself face to face with Thomas.

'Ah!' he said absent-mindedly. 'I was hoping to see you. Did you get that map done?'

'Yes, sir,' said Thomas. 'I was just coming to show you – after you'd finished with Governor Ratcliffe ...' He broke off short, and hurried to take a folded paper from inside his coat. John took it and walked sideways towards a lantern which hung from a pole nearby, spreading the paper out under the light.

'That's a beautiful piece of work,' he said, after taking in all the features of the map. 'I wasn't thinking of anything so fine, only a useable sketch ... This is splendid.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Thomas shyly.

'I hope you didn't wear yourself out. Have you any fever?'

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Are you all right in your tent? Do you want to go to the hospital?'

'No, sir, I'm all right. I'll stay with Lon and Ben.'

The boy's right. They'll look after him, thought John and wished Thomas good night, then stood folding the map carefully and watched him walk off. When he was about twenty yards away, a voice called: 'Given him your love-letter, then?'

Two men emerged from between the tents and jostled Thomas. The other one said something, too, drowned by Thomas's shout of 'Get out of my way!' As he tried to barge past one man, the other neatly tripped him from behind and he fell over.

John was just drawing in his breath to call out when, from the far end of the row of tents, there came a roar from Mate Dawkins. 'You louts leave the boy alone and get inside!'

'Ah, it was only in fun!' said one of the men self-righteously. But they walked away to their own tents without delay, while Dawkins stood rigidly at the end of the row watching until Thomas had picked himself up and the others disappeared.

John went on towards Dawkins and they both entered their tent.

'Thank you, Christopher,' said John matter-of-factly.

The mate grunted and made a movement with one hand as if to toss something over his shoulder. 'Those good-for-nothings. If it was up to me I'd flog them till they couldn't stand.'

John smiled and nodded, but he was embarrassed and worried. Although Dawkins's leathery face revealed nothing, John knew that he was both ashamed on John's behalf, and reproachful of John for giving even the shadow of a foundation to the things that were being said. There did not seem to be much for them to say to one another.

'At least they worked well today,' said John. 'You should get your repairs done tomorrow without any trouble.'

'And about time, too ... They're cooking the fish over at the fireplace; if you want any we'd better get over there.'

John put the map away in his chest and they both went back to the middle of the camp and stood around with the other men waiting to be handed small, bony, smoky-tasting fish, burning hot from the embers. John was too tired to be very alert to the mood of the company; so, of course, were most of the other men. They sat or stood in a daze, speaking little and slowly; faces passed before their eyes almost unrecognised. Yet John thought he saw quite a number of men looking at him over their shoulders as they passed, or letting their eyes follow him as he moved. None of the looks was openly scornful, a few were speculative, but most seemed wistful. It was the way sailors look at a patch of clear sky left on the horizon when storm-clouds are quickly filling the sky overhead.

How has my stock fallen so low? thought John. I didn't meet the Indians or get the food, and now there is this foolery about Thomas ... none of it would matter if Ratcliffe would back me up. But he won't, and every one of them knows it. They are afraid of him and they know I can do nothing.

He thought he began to see what Ratcliffe was about. When he had first joined the company, he had taken him for a hard, unlikeable, but level-headed leader. Afterwards for a while he had been tempted to think of him as a dangerous buffoon. But now he was not sure. He had heard of leaders like him, even some who had succeeded in seemingly desperate situations. They brought their men into hostile country, risked disease and starvation, terrorised and humiliated them and then managed to turn their hatred and resentment outwards onto the enemy, whom they fought with the fierceness of men with nothing left to lose. It could work. But it was not going to work for Ratcliffe with John Smith around. It was not in John to lend himself to that kind of leadership, even if he wanted to. He had never needed to use punishments or terror to get men to do what he wanted – and for a moment, absurdly, he wondered why. Then he cursed himself for an idiot. It was as if he saw for the first time how it must be for Ratcliffe to have him, John Smith, in his company. One might almost ask: with John Smith there, what sort of leader was it open to Ratcliffe to be? What was left for him? John had a strong impulse to hunch his shoulders, screw up his face, go down to the riverbank and plaster mud in that unmistakable yellow hair: anything to rid himself of the unfair advantage which looked as if it would rebound on him so disastrously. But of course he could not.

The truth of it struck him with blunt force: Ratcliffe could not be doing with him, and would not rest until he had somehow got him out of the way. Then he reasoned with himself: he has to put up with me, as I do with him. These extremes always come to mind at night when one is very tired. There is truth in them, but by day we all have to trim our sails and get along as we can. I had better go to bed and get ready to do my work tomorrow. Ratcliffe'll thank me yet. Tomorrow I'll find her. I know I can.

At the thought of finding Pocahontas, knowing that that was the next day's proper work, a rush of happiness came over him. All the day's quarrels, shifts and discontents faded before the prospect. To venture out again into this fair new world, to find his way back into the deep trust that had arisen between the two of them, to learn more of life from her: it was all that he could desire. But would she want anything to do with him this time? Now that her people had declared themselves against meeting the English, would loyalty hold her back? Well, if it did, he would accept it, and do his task without her as well as he might. He would still try to force the settlers to keep the peace with the Indians by any means he could, for her sake, because what she had shown him was reality. Not adventure, not comradeship, not the thirst for knowledge, none of these was firm ground to plant one's feet on. The understanding, the being at one, which he had begun to learn with her: that was. Some lines came into his mind:

'O Love, they wrong thee much

That say thy sweet is bitter ...'

He could not remember any more of it except the end:

'I know thee what thou art,

I serve thee with my heart

And bow before thee.'

I know thee what thou art ... He smiled at himself for these fancies, but he went to sleep happy.


	16. Chapter 16

**This chapter contains the long-awaited cornfield scene. Not as purely romantic as in the movie, because, unlike the idiot he seems to be in the movie, John Smith has a plan.**

**In Disney the scene where John Smith meets Grandmother Willow is played 100% for laughs. I thought it might be quite interesting, rather, to imagine what it would really be like, no kidding, for a rational man to meet a friendly nature spirit – assuming that such a thing existed!**

**Disclaimer: Disney characters ...**

CHAPTER 16

For Pocahontas, the day before had been another one of stifling inactivity, indecision and anger. She was up at dawn, plodding through the summer rain, her wet tunic shrinking on her skin, the damp leaves on the path sticking to her feet. She went to a forest hunting-shelter with her father's wife, her aunts and her young nephews and nieces and their guard of warriors; she was spoken to coldly, watched suspiciously, and treated as an inconvenient piece of baggage. In danger like this her mother, at Pocahontas's age, would have been with the scouts, treading light-footed through the undergrowth with an arrow to the string. How much more should her daughter be doing real work at this time of danger, when this danger was especially hers! She, and no other, had the knowledge on which their lives might all depend, yet her tongue was tied and she could not speak of it. She had tried to tell her father the night before, but her heart had failed. Sukanon had never quite lived down the disgrace of bearing a son to a Massowomeck. And here was Pocahontas, the loyal and honourable daughter, longing for the pale horror, the alien invader. If her father found out that she had followed, met, spoken alone with this man – still more, that she could not rest for thinking of him – she could not even imagine what he would do: confusion and dread would not let her push her thoughts further. So, instead of doing her proper task, she was letting herself be treated like a basket of grain in store, to be carried about and kept safe for when Kocoum should choose to dip into it. Kocoum!

She judged her father's part in the matter with the merciless sharpness of the young. Because he could not face the thought that his life's work might end with him, he vainly imagined that he could make his stolid kinsman in his own image. Powhatan's whole kingdom had been built on his foresight; Kocoum would never see anything further away than the next enemy on the battlefield. And Powhatan thought that tying Pocahontas to him would make him a better chief, as though a headdress of feathers could make its wearer one featherweight lighter! Was her father turning dotard, that he was suddenly so cautious in providing for his family and his inheritance, and at the same time so reckless in attacking the white men without knowing anything of them? Would it not be better for him to receive the foreigners, teach them and learn their arts, make the alliance greater still with their help, and thus gain more time and opportunity to provide for his inheritance? So Pocahontas reasoned, yet she knew well, deep down, that her father's decision to drive out the foreigners unheard, even at the risk of his life, was not reckless folly. It was deeply considered. To counter it she would need more than shallow arguments founded on gain; she would need, in fact, a still deeper dream. And she had it, but she could not use it.

There was only one relief in the day: the women would not spend their time urging her to marry Kocoum. They had not been told of the match. It was hard enough for Nijlon to accept that her sons would not be first in the succession; Powhatan did not want to rub salt in the wound. He had not needed to warn Pocahontas to be discreet. She almost smiled, looking at the brooding women. If they only knew how much I agree with them, she thought, that I should not marry Kocoum!

Already her aunt had asked her why the chief had summoned her the night before, and although Pocahontas would have been within her rights to retort that the chief's counsels were his to keep, she gave a soft answer. 'He told me my task in case the foreigners defeat us,' she said. 'To take the way to shelter past the hills.'

'Hmph!' snorted Nijlon. 'As if we didn't know the way.'

Pocahontas said nothing.

'They cannot possibly defeat us anyway,' said Sukanon, Kocoum's mother. 'What can they do, barely a hundred men? We will have five times that.'

She said it to placate Nijlon, and not unnaturally it had the opposite effect. 'What can they not do! They are demons. And what men will we have? Up-river cowards and back-stabbing Tapahannocks!'

Sukanon pursed her lips and looked down at her sewing. The chief's wife glanced up challengingly. 'If they were really demons, they might have killed us all by now,' she said.

'They have been making themselves secure first,' retorted Nijlon. 'By the time the warriors arrive they will have finished their stockade. Then there will be no getting rid of them. We should have attacked them at once, as soon as they landed.'

'You didn't say that three days ago,' said the younger woman, looking at her sidelong.

Nijlon drew in her breath sharply. 'Who are you talking to? Do your work and remember your place.' She tossed a bundle of canes for arrow-making at the girl, hitting her on the shoulder.

'Forgive me, mistress,' the girl answered soothingly. 'I know my place.' She looked around her and said under her breath, 'I know where my place was last night, too.'

Nijlon glared. Pocahontas sighed. This endless women's manoeuvring and bickering, which not even war could silence – did she have to live like this? And how could her father put up with it, and take women like these to his bed? She knew quite well that a chief had to have wives for the sake of his standing; it was not a matter of liking. It still set her teeth on edge.

Before noon on the second day her father rescued her. He came and spoke for a little while to each member of the family, and then singled Pocahontas out. 'Walk with me back to the village,' he said. 'I have to see how things are going there.'

Pocahontas went with him submissively and warily. She had defied him two nights before. He had the right to beat or kill her, but he was trying, shyly, to keep the door open between them. Because he loves me, Pocahontas thought, and because he wants to get his way.

He strode downhill towards the river, with Pocahontas following just behind. The sun was coming out after the rain, gleaming on the wet leaves; birds called and fluttered, sending showers of drops flying; the ground smoked, and the leaf-mould was warm and fragrant. Pocahontas remembered walks like this when she was a child. She and her brother would run ahead, climb trees, disturb ants' nests; their father laughed and praised them, and put them on his shoulders when they were tired; their mother told them the names and uses of the plants and showed them where each one grew. The memories were bright and indistinct. Now her picture of the forest was crystal-sharp. She knew everything, down to the cracked patterns in the bark of the fallen twigs that littered the ground, and exactly which grubs she might expect to find underneath. That was all easy. It was the minds of the people around her, and her own mind, which were blurred and as tangled as undergrowth.

Her father called her up alongside him and began to talk, with constraint at first. He reminded her of landmarks they were passing, and then turned to talking of the warriors who would come soon to help them fight, their chiefs and their families. 'Do you remember three years ago when we visited the old chief of Potomac, the one whose fish-traps you admired? His nephew rules in his place now. He hoped for a marriage with our family and was put out not to get one, so we shall have to show him some special courtesy when he comes.' Or again: 'I am afraid that family will not hold the chieftainship for long. The chief has several cousins who have as good a right to it as he does, and two of his best supporters died this year. This war will probably give someone an occasion to challenge him, and then they will all be fighting each other and we will get no help from them for a long time. I shall not interfere, even if they ask me. It is a wasps' nest.' Pocahontas listened carefully, and now and then, guardedly, asked questions. Her father seemed gratified, and spoke more freely. She knew that what he told her could be very useful, and was determined to remember all that she could, but would not let her father see how interested she was. She knew quite well what he was about. He was not such a fool as to ask her directly to change her mind about Kocoum; he knew that what she refused to do one day, she would not suddenly do the next. Rather, he was telling her all this in order to feed her a notion of what an important person she would be as the chief's wife. He hoped that the image of herself, equipped with all her father's knowledge of the shifting layers of power in their alliance, giving shrewd advice to her husband to help him guide their people, would work on her in the course of time. There was not a chance of that; she smiled at his innocence in thinking so, even while she was awed by the breadth of his knowledge and the sharpness of his judgment about the affairs of the kingdom.

They reached the village. The men left on guard reported that there had been no more raids, or sinister messages from the men in the ship. All seemed well, except that the birds were making inroads into the unguarded corn. Powhatan ordered one of the guards to send for some women from their hiding place in the forest, to pick as much of the corn as was ripe enough and take it away to store. 'Will you stay with them?' he asked Pocahontas. 'I'll tell him to make sure Nakoma comes.' He smiled, and Pocahontas bent her head. He knows I prefer that to staying with the royal ladies, she thought. But he couldn't leave me alone, could he?

Powhatan was called away: a forerunner from the warriors who were on their way had arrived at the shore. Pocahontas went to a store in the village and fetched baskets, several small ones and one that was half her own height and a yard across, made from willow-withes. She carried them easily among the corn hills and set to work. It was sultry and very quiet, and she paused from her picking at intervals to peer between the corn stems that towered above her head, or to glance over her shoulder, afraid for some reason of being watched or caught unawares. Was she afraid of being attacked, a woman out of sight of her own kind? She had never feared that before. No, she was somehow afraid that, alone as she was, she would forget to thrust her dreams down; she would let them escape her in some visible form that an unseen watcher could detect.

She had warning of the coming of the other pickers, though; they could be heard a long way off screeching and flapping their baskets to scare away the birds. Presently Nakoma arrived beside her and greeted her shyly.

'Do you think these are ripe enough to pick?' was the next thing Nakoma said.

'No,' said Pocahontas, 'I think just take the ones that are mostly yellow.' She almost blushed to talk of the yellow of ripe corn, as if anyone could guess what it reminded her of.

'We met a man half way here who said that the warriors are going to be here this afternoon,' said Nakoma.

'Good,' said Pocahontas absently.

'Then they'll fight, won't they? Do you think they'll fight tomorrow?'

'I don't know.'

'We may have to be away tonight if they do.'

'Maybe.'

'Hasn't your father said anything, Pocahontas?'

Pocahontas did not answer at once, because she had been absently scanning the forest margin at the edge of the field. As she turned at last to give Nakoma a proper reply, she saw Nakoma's eyes widen and a look of terror come over her face. She herself glanced round and saw John Smith step sideways out from among the stalks of maize. Moving quickly, as if she were not surprised, she caught Nakoma by the shoulders and clapped a hand over her mouth. John Smith looked at them, an outlandish figure in the familiar field, with his hands slightly raised and with a deprecating smile on his face. Why had she feared the memory of him? Why had she doubted his good will? The moment she saw him again, all she could think of was to protect him, who was venturing so trustingly, childishly, into danger.

Pocahontas said his name, and then, in an urgent whisper in her own language, 'What are you doing here?'

He held out his hands to her and said a word or two. Nakoma wriggled in Pocahontas's grasp and stared at her in disbelief.

The voices of two of the other women could be heard only a few hills away. 'In the name of all the gods, don't say anything,' whispered Pocahontas to Nakoma, released her, and seized John Smith by the hand.

'What are you doing?' hissed Nakoma. 'It's one of _them_!'

Pocahontas, for answer, only pulled the man in among the corn until he was out of sight. For an instant Nakoma saw her face again, with a finger held pleadingly to her lips. Then she was gone. Nakoma, weak with shock, lowered her basket unthinkingly to the ground.

She picked no more until a woman from the chief's household came up and asked where Pocahontas was. 'I don't know. She went away from here,' was the only answer Nakoma could think to give, and she noticed the hard stare the woman gave her before moving away.

*****

John Smith had been prepared to get into the river and swim to get clear of the camp undetected that morning, but luck was with him: the damp warm dawn brought mist, curling up from the water and drifting between the trees, so thick that each trunk seen from the next looked like a pale shadow. He headed up away from the river, guided by the slope alone, moving with infinite care from one tree to the next. He had a scare when the fog suddenly thinned in front of him and he heard voices. Two men were talking to one another quietly, their distance impossible to judge in the unnaturally still air. He froze and then moved even more carefully in the opposite direction, at pains not to assume that it was safe. No alarm was raised, and after a quarter of a mile he judged he might go slightly easier. Still moving uphill, he came out suddenly from the fog into bright early light.

He had left behind weapons, helmet, and anything that might reflect the sunlight or that might creak or jingle. His plan was to make a circuit of the Indian village first of all, to see if he could ascertain where Pocahontas was likely to be, and, failing finding her, to approach whatever man seemed to be in authority. By the time he arrived there at the pace he had to go, the shadows were shortening, cover was getting more and more difficult to find, and he spent a fruitless couple of hours spying, in the company of thoughts that gave him ever less comfort.

By watching the buildings from above for a good while, he came to the conclusion that the dwellings were all empty. There were many people around the village, but they all seemed to be young men. Most of them were busy finishing the high palisade all around the houses, which was not made of hewn tree trunks like the one at Jamestown, but of slender stakes criss-crossed to support one another. Now and then a couple of men would arrive out of the forest with more materials and lay them in a heap. Those in charge of the work carefully looked out trunks and branches that would match one another in thickness, and trimmed them painstakingly with their stone knives. Three-quarters of the fence was built already. It was a beautiful piece of work. Two or three good shots from a cannon would leave it in ruins.

A little way up the river from the houses, he found a group of men standing at the water's edge, and lay under some bushes watching them. They were spearing fish. They stood motionless for so long the eye tired of watching, then moved in a flash, like the finest rapier-fighters, and held up their flapping quarry on the end of their spears. There were no drudges among these men; they all needed this incredible skill. How hard, and how hard-learned, was their way of life; how finely wrought they were to stand it, every one tall and lean and quick, tempered by wars and winters.

They were doomed. Against his people, they could not possibly stand. However strong they were as men, they had no chance against what was coming to them: the deluge of things, of possessions which would make their skill useless, things that allowed many men to be weak and foolish while a few only needed to be wise and strong. Whatever we take from them, thought John, it's what we give to them that will really destroy them. They will not be able to master our possessions, or to do without them. They will sell their women and their truth to gorge themselves on things. And if I go out there and offer them tools or gilt baubles or weapons in exchange for their fish and corn, that will just be the beginning of it.

We should never have meddled here, he thought. The only right thing to do would be to turn around, get into our ship and sail quietly home: leave them alone, forget that the New World ever existed. That's what I should do, if I want to save my soul.

But others will come. There's no stopping it now. And what else is there for me to do? Didn't I grow up knowing that to see new lands was my calling? Didn't I always believe that exploring, discovering, charting, was the best thing a man could do, and a tall ship the finest thing he ever made? I've lost my bearings, he thought. And that greedy beast has got my compass. He smiled wryly at the aptness of it.

He had never thought out what he meant to say to the Indian chief when he met him, knowing that the needs and intuitions of the moment were all-important. He knew, though, that if he did succeed in meeting him his tone would be very different now from what it would have been on the first day. A manner as between lordly equals was out of the question. All he could hope to do was ask humbly for hospitality and pardon for presumption already shown. He could not see that pleasing Ratcliffe at all.

He moved away from the river, skirted the fields and wondered how far into the forest there was any sense in searching, before he simply walked up to any man who seemed less likely than another to stick him on the spot. Then luck turned his way again. Shrill women's voices were coming in his direction. He lurked at the forest margin just above the cornfield and saw the women fan out among the hills of corn and set to work picking. He guessed that if Pocahontas were there, she would be out at the edge furthest from the village, and he was right.

*****

She let go his hand and, glancing repeatedly backward with a hurried and angry expression on her face, led him very quickly into the forest, then diagonally downhill until they were beside the river. He thought that they might stop and talk but she jogged and clambered on for as much as a mile, while the ground began to slope away more and more steeply and great mossy boulders and fallen trees blocked their path. On their left now was a high and steep bank down to the river, which crashed and foamed noisily along a stretch of rapids. John understood that she hoped to be safe in a place where no one had any reason to come, and where the noise of the river would drown their voices. Finally she dropped to her knees on the landward side of a rock about twice his height and settled herself comfortably in the leaf mould. She opened a leather satchel that hung at her side, and as John hesitantly sat down near her she took out a flat unleavened cake and a strip of dried meat, broke the cake in two and handed half to him, then pulled the meat into two sections with her teeth and did the same with that.

He only knew how grateful he must look when her face lit up with a flashing smile that brought all their earlier time together vividly back to him. They sat opposite each other for a few minutes and ate with concentration. Then she took a hollow gourd from her satchel, swung herself down to the river, filled the gourd with fast-flowing water and handed it up to him. When they had both drunk, he thanked her formally, and she held out her hands and spoke some words which had the sound of a housewife accepting a guest's compliments.

Now they had to tackle business, and he was terribly aware of the burden of his people and hers behind them, when the first time they had met they had thought of little but each other.

He began by trying to explain to her that he had come to meet the ruler of her folk, to talk to him; that his men wanted to ask for food, hospitality, permission to stay. Now that the words had to be found seriously, not in play, and now that rather than laughing her brow was furrowed with the effort to understand him, understanding seemed to take much longer than before. At last, however, he felt sure that she did understand.

'The chief is my father,' she said. She got up and mimed (she did it extremely well) a chief standing to his full height, crowned with feathers and holding a long spear in his hand. Then she seemed to shrink to the size of a child and stand before the chief, her arms imitating his arms around her shoulders.

John Smith nodded slowly with satisfaction, unsurprised.

Then she asked, 'Why have you come here?'

That was the difficult one. He first thought he ought to explain _how_ they had come. He got out his tablets, which she had not yet seen, in which he had smoothed over the rough map of the rivers that Thomas had drawn out for him the day before. On the wax he scratched a picture of the ship, the _Susan Constant_, between the two coasts of the ocean. He drew the rising sun and the setting sun, east and west, and held up seven fingers ten times to show how long the crossing had taken. She pointed at the sun in the sky for confirmation, and he agreed. She seemed almost too awestruck to ask him any more questions for the present, but he ploughed on unasked.

'And why we have come …'. Why? Poor men hoping to get rich, rich men hoping for glory – why come all this way for that? For gold? On his little finger he had a worn gold ring that had belonged to his mother, which he took off and showed to her. She shrugged her shoulders, spreading her hands wide. It was obvious she had never seen anything like it before, and could see no particular worth in it.

'But I came – ' … he could think of nothing else to do than to climb a step or two up the great rock they sat against, and look out over the land and then turn to face the river, shading his eyes with his hand exaggeratedly.

Pocahontas sat back and laughed with startled delight. This was exactly the way she had first seen him close, looking out over the forest from that tree by the shore. But now she had begun to know him, and instead of fear she felt for him a mixture of motherly indulgence and rapt admiration. He was at play in this land, as only a very small boy, who had not yet shouldered any of the tasks of manhood, could possibly play. But his restless wide-eyed face had seen the other side of the ocean that, as far as she had ever known, had no further shore. What distant lands, what unimaginable realities did his mind encompass? Her own thought stretched to try and match it, but in vain.

'You too are a chief,' she said softly.

'No,' he said ruefully, sitting down again. He picked up a pine-cone and placed it on a fairly high ledge of the rock, then another on the ledge below it. 'Second to the chief,' he explained. 'And my chief wants war with yours. And we will have to be very quick to stop him.'

'My father too,' said Pocahontas carefully. 'My people are in great fear of you strangers. The shaman has warned us not to have anything to do with you. More warriors are coming before sunset today, and after that they mean to attack you.'

After she had made this clear to him piece by piece, he sprang catlike to his feet. 'Then we have to go at once,' he said. 'Can you take me to your father now? I must speak to him. I must try to tell him that we will do you no harm, if it is in my power at all.' When Pocahontas made signs that she was afraid for him, that he would be in great danger with no protection but hers, he brushed her words aside with a sweep of his hand. 'It doesn't matter. It must be now, or it may be too late.'

Pocahontas blamed herself, then and afterwards, for not doing as he said. But she convinced him, slowly and with difficulty, that it would be much better if she could speak to her father first and persuade him to provide safe conduct; that he would be sure to listen to her, now that she could tell him for certain who the strangers were and what their business was; that there would have to be a council and various ceremonies before her people could possibly attack. She knew in her heart, even then, that her only real reason for wanting to delay was fear: fear of owning her feelings for the stranger to her father and the whole people, and even to herself. She also knew that the fear would only grow greater from not being faced at once. Both to justify the delay and in the hope that this would build up her courage, she decided to take John Smith to the place where her guide lived.

He followed her without demur downstream, another mile or more, to where the bank grew lower, the ground levelled and began to be broken by marshy channels. Between the trees, he suddenly saw much wider water. This was where the river on which the village stood met the greater river on which the English were camped, he realised. Far to the east, that river in turn emptied into the vast tidal bay they had first entered from the open sea.

Here, it was not clear what was land and what was water. The ground must always be soft, and now was even softer from the previous day's rain. They crossed muddy spits where they had to use tree-roots as footholds to prevent themselves getting bogged down, and on slightly drier ground they threaded their way through thick tangles of undergrowth. Some channels they crossed on fallen, half-rotted tree trunks, others they waded. It was just as well, John thought, that his clothes were already too much ruined for him to worry about what impression he would make on the chief at the end of all this. He was not sure whether they were on one divided stretch of land or a maze of islands, but at last they came out into a brighter little glade, bordering on the main river, where one huge tree had triumphed over all the jostling, leaning saplings of the rest of the shore: a great, spreading willow tree.

Pocahontas sat with her knees tucked under her on a tall, blackened stump in front of the tree's main trunk. John Smith sat down on a root that arched out over the water. He watched the girl, with half-closed eyes, very gently lay her hand against the cracked, grey bark of the tree. She sat there quite still for several minutes.

John looked around. Smooth, humped grey branches thicker than his waist snaked their way across the clearing. A curtain of willow-leaves cut off a secret pool at the river's edge. The water close to the bank was so still it was almost invisible but for the shadows of the branches and reflections of clouds in it here and there between rafts of long, yellow leaves that lay immobile on the surface. The bottom was muddy. The air was hot and humid in the quietest part of the day: not a creature seemed to be stirring. Why was this place important to the girl? How long did they have to stay here? He wondered if it would be thought improper to take his boots off and dangle his feet in the water, and glanced across at Pocahontas to see if he could guess. She slowly shifted her listening stance and turned to him, and a luminous smile spread over her face. She motioned to him to touch the tree.

John, puzzled but patient, moved a few steps and in his turn placed his hand on the tree-trunk. It was rough, as he had expected, pressing hard on some parts of his palm and barely touching others, but that was not what made him snatch his hand away and start several paces back. It was the feeling of a sudden motion, a prickle of life through the bark, as though some presence had become aware of him and was listening and sensing through the stillness of the glade, in which the roar of the rapids sounded muffled and distant.

This was different from the sense of one-ness with the world that he had felt in Pocahontas's company three days before. This personal, brooding presence in the tree at once aroused all his Christian horror of idols, demons, the worship of stocks and stones. He stared at Pocahontas in dismay. She was yielding to – was possessed by – this … thing.

Yet she gazed at him earnestly. 'Is she speaking to you?' she whispered.

'_She_?'

'You should answer. Answer.'

John Smith wondered if he looked as faint as he felt.

'This is not for me … I can't,' he got out.

Pocahontas made reassuring small downward gestures with her open hand, as if pushing away his fear. She seemed to think it was of no moment. 'Listen – listen. It will all be well,' she said, and other short words of the same kind, now standing against the tree, turning her face back towards him, and smiling.

John had always assumed his own religion to be the only true one, without actually troubling himself much about it. God was a matter best left to the priests and doctors; taking religion seriously was too difficult, too disconnected from the kind of life he had to lead, and he had always vaguely hoped that a very perfunctory observance would be enough to save him from divine anger, while not gaining him any special favours. I should have given God more of his due, he thought now, then I would have had some defence against this. How can I tell her that her god is deceiving her when I know nothing of mine?

Braced against a malevolent presence, he stood in the middle of the glade wishing to be anywhere else. But his pulse slowed, and nothing further happened. He wondered if he had only fancied he felt anything. But then it began to seem to him that, far from being threatening, the quietness around the tree was peaceful, enveloping him in kindliness.

The grace of the great tree was extraordinary. The way the slender wands curved from the crown like the water of a fountain and fell on all sides in fretted curtains of green touched with gold: there was something extravagantly festive about it, and yet quiet and slightly melancholy, as the reflected light from the smooth river water filtered in over the pale golden, leafy floor. John began to feel held and contained, as if he were part of that subtle force that lifted the tree upwards and poured its life, refreshing and sheltering, through the encircling branches.

Unaccountably he remembered the beginning of a grey dawn from very long ago: he was lying safely in bed, he could hear the liquid, icy-clear notes of a blackbird, and he knew that outside the orchard trees were in full bloom.

How long was it since he had been safe? Or since anyone had held him? He had forgotten what it felt like, until now. He suddenly felt his whole self to be taut, strained as a bowstring, stretched by the need to fight for those who relied on him and to seek out truth in the world. Here, a teasing grandmotherly presence smiled at the strivings of men and invited him to let all his trouble go. What truly is, it said, does not strive alone but flows at ease.

I can't let it go, not yet: I mustn't, he felt his inner voice protesting. They need me.

Then ask for help.

Help me, then, if you can.

Yes. Your load will be borne up. You are not alone.

At that, he found he was looking at Pocahontas as if there had been some interruption in his ordinary vision, like a moment of sleep or darkness. Shaking his head to clear it, he saw her nod in recognition, as if she knew without words the nature of what had happened to him. He was confused. What had taken place was real, as real as anything else in his knowledge. But it did not fit with any of what he knew. It left the world blurred. No, the world was as it had been, but no longer just there: the world was a sign, something wrought, something created to speak to him. He in turn was laid bare to it. He felt as if he was quick all over like a peeled twig, and ready to cry like a young child.

Pocahontas turned fully towards him. 'I am glad…' she said.

Before she could go on, the quietness, which had seemed to last forever, was suddenly and terribly shattered. A loud, confused noise began somewhere far out on the water. There was what sounded like a concerted shout from a number of deep men's voices, with a high ululation above. Then, unmistakable to John though strange to Pocahontas, there were several loud cracks, the reports of muskets. He remembered that the English camp was only a couple of miles away.

Oh, no, he thought, snatching his inner defences around him before he could consider what he was doing.

Pocahontas had leaped up and was climbing like a squirrel into the higher branches of the willow. She thrust her head out over the leaf canopy, bracing her arms against branches. 'It is our warriors. They are coming,' she called down with her voice full of dread.

John was climbing after her. Uncertain of his foothold, grasping handfuls of withes and leaves, he peered out over the river. Half a mile downstream, in the middle of the wide current, was a line of canoes, more than he could quickly count, thirty or so. He could just see the flashing movements of men paddling, perhaps eight to each boat. Except that some were not paddling but kneeling still with outstretched arms along the sides of the canoes, all facing one way. Between them and the near bank a puff of white smoke suddenly rose into the air, and a moment later the echoing crack of a gunshot sounded. Without the smoke to guide his eyes John might have had difficulty in spotting the small boat that the shot had come from, but now he saw it, and three or four men in it. The kneeling men in the canoes made sudden movements of release, one after the other. He saw what they were doing: shooting with bows, although the arrows were too distant to be seen.

He dropped some way down the tree hand over hand and let himself fall the last six feet. Pocahontas too was scrambling down towards him. 'I have to go,' he said to her, his voice shaking, 'there is some madness going on. Our camp is there, my people, I have to stop them.'

'But my father! The warriors are here.'

He took a deep breath. 'I will come back,' he said. 'I'll come back here. Meet me here, if you can, at moonrise. It may be difficult … I will come. Tell him; please tell him.'

'I will,' she said. 'I will. I'll be here,' and she pointed emphatically at the ground before her.

'Good-bye,' said John, and ran. It seemed he had buckled all his armour on again without realising it; everything was as it had been that morning, but worse.


	17. Chapter 17

To reviewers, my thanks. Laur, I purposely made John Smith about as non-religious as I think it would have been possible to be in the early seventeenth century, when a monotheistic world view was essentially the only one available in Europe. But I have to admit, as I wrote this he steadily became someone whom such questions would probably bother more than they would the character in the movie. Scholarwriter, you've completely got it. I hope that the extent to which I work out this theme won't disappoint you: but events are moving quickly to a climax now!

Disclaimer: Disney characters

CHAPTER 17

Pocahontas stayed for a minute or two longer peering out from the river-bank to see the issue of the fight. It did not go on long. The small boat belonging to the strangers disappeared inshore, and the Indian allies bent to their paddles, coming on up the river, their rowing chant with some added victory whoops heard clearly on the wind. Pocahontas knew what would happen next. They would turn ashore to beach their canoes somewhere quite close to where she was now standing, at the foot of the rapids. Then they would continue to the village on foot: it had been built above the rapids in the days of Massowomeck dominance, precisely to make attack from the water more difficult.

There was no time to lose. Her father, alerted by messengers, would certainly be at the village now waiting to welcome the newcomers. She would never get a better chance to speak to him. She was buoyed up by the knowledge that her guardian spirit had spoken to John Smith, when there was no knowing whether she would speak to anyone except Pocahontas, certainly not to a man and a foreigner. Surely if Grandmother Willow thought that John Smith was a fit and proper person, so might Powhatan. One day, perhaps, she would be able to ask John Smith what the spirit had said to him. But a lot had to happen before that time came.

She ran as quickly as she could back to the village, coming out of the forest at the edge of the fields and mingling as best she could with the women streaming down towards the water's edge. The place was like an anthill: while she had been gone, everyone else had arrived back. The river bank was lined with shouting, jostling young men and gaggles of over-excited children. Cooking pits had been dug on the level ground near the shore, smoke was rising and there was a smell of baking meat as women moved to and fro adding fuel. Behind the heat haze she could see Powhatan, surrounded by Kekata, a small group of elders, his sister and his two eldest nephews, and a guard of honour which included Kocoum, standing among the ceremonial pillars near the water's edge.

She came to a stop out of breath, her own hands falling to her sides as she considered her next move. A voice sounded in her ear before she had time to see that Nakoma was beside her. 'Pocahontas! Where were you … what were you doing with one of _them_…?'

Pocahontas ignored her, thinking hard. She had a right, and was expected, to stand with the chief to welcome the allies. But she ought to have oiled and braided her hair, washed her feet, painted her face, put on an extra necklace. There was no time now. And her father would not want to talk to her. He was careful never to give her special attention in front of the rest of the family, especially on public occasions like this. Never mind. It would have to be managed as best she could.

She edged forward towards the circle. Luckily Kekata, who liked her, saw her first and let his eyes twinkle. The warriors stared stonily ahead, Kocoum as impassive as any of them. Her aunt, wrapped in a long fringed cloak and so many necklaces that her shoulders were stooped, gave an icy glare which Pocahontas met with a gracious smile.

'The gods have given us a good day,' she said easily, as if bestowing a favour. 'I have seen the warriors. They were just arriving under the rapids – they may have drawn up their boats by now.'

At the sound of her voice her father turned round with a momentary, lightening smile on his face. 'Pocahontas! Welcome, daughter. I was anxious … You should have stayed near the village, not gone out to see the warriors. It is not safe.' He said all this as if he were whispering aside during a ceremony. After a moment, however, he said aloud and with fuller attention, 'Have you just come from the rapids? Had they not come ashore yet?'

'No.'

'Then it will be some time before they are here. Let us sit down.' And he, his sister and the elders settled themselves cross-legged on the ground, although the young men remained standing.

All around, the crowd had grown a little quieter and less mobile, its hum of expectation broken only by an occasional high-pitched shout from an excited child or a directing cook. Powhatan gazed straight ahead with a calm but eager expression on his face, as if he were listening to the details of a successful battle. Pocahontas stood before him as if waiting for a chance to launch a boat among rough waves.

'Father,' she began.

'Yes, daughter,' he said absently.

'There is something I must say to you …'

'Now is not the time to speak, Pocahontas,' said her aunt sternly.

'Let her alone,' said Powhatan. 'What is it, Pocahontas? But be quick.'

'We need not fight the strangers!' said Pocahontas passionately. 'It is still not too late. There must be another way!'

Powhatan, silencing his sister and the scandalized elders with one lifted hand, looked at Pocahontas seriously and spoke quietly. 'Why do you say this, daughter? After all the wars we have fought, why are you afraid?'

'I am not afraid. I wish … to know. To know them. That is why.'

'Now, of that I am afraid. Listen to what I am saying, and believe it, Pocahontas.' He still spoke slowly and thoughtfully, as if they were alone. 'You are young; you are curious. But Kekata knows, and I know, that these people's wisdom, if it is real at all, is the enemy of ours. If we even meet them, it will eat away at ours as termites eat wood, and leave us in ruins. They are too different from us. Our only hope is to destroy them quickly, as one destroys a termites' nest.'

Pocahontas gazed at him despairingly. He was right, and wrong. She could not dispute what he said except by revealing what she still could not.

'But if you could look into the eyes of one of them, Father … and see truth there … would you not believe it?'

'If,' he replied. She could tell that he was unwilling for this talk to continue, but was moved by the desperation he sensed in her. 'But I would be afraid of believing in truth where there was only falsehood. They are beyond understanding.'

'If one of them were brought to you alone,' she said, taking her courage in both hands, 'if he did you honour, if he were ready to make amends for the harm they have done – would that not be enough for peace?'

'I cannot say. But if one came alone, I would not kill him: I would have to listen, though it would be against my judgement.'

'You would not kill him? Give me your word, Father!'

Powhatan was startled at her sudden vehemence and her blazing eyes. Again there came to him the conviction that some spirit had spoken to her that could not be ignored. And a more solid conviction came to him, too: that she had met one of these men. He would have sifted the matter out on the spot had they been alone together. But there was even greater danger, both for him and for her, in speaking of it any more here than in letting it pass. Nor could he say, in front of all those present, 'I give you my word.'

'I have said that I would not kill him,' he repeated dryly.

A shout went up at the downstream end of the village. 'They are here!' A drum began to beat.

Pocahontas had drawn in her breath to speak again: in fact she had been about to say, 'I met one.'

'We cannot speak any more now,' said Powhatan to his daughter. 'I will welcome our allies, the council will meet, and we will prepare for war. Be wise, Pocahontas. Stay in the village until it is time to set out with the other women. Do not go anywhere alone, I command you. Everything will be as the gods decide.'

Nijlon took Pocahontas by the arm with claw-like fingers and drew her back several steps as Powhatan turned to meet the chief of the Tapahannocks, who advanced flanked by his senior warriors, resplendent in long cloak and red feathers. She bowed, with the other women and young men, as the chiefs clasped hands. She watched her father as he invited Kekata to speak a ritual welcome, ushered the visiting chief forward to present the elders to him, turned this way and that to address a courteous word to each guest and dignitary, perfectly adjusted to each man's rank. She was awed, as always, by how consummately her father did his task. At the same time it all seemed hollow to her. She was angry, abashed, unsure whether to feel triumph or despair at what she had achieved.

'You shameless girl,' said her aunt in an undertone when the men had moved away. 'Look at yourself. If you cannot appear with any more dignity than that, it would be better if you stayed away. And who are you to babble to your father when he has chiefs' business to think of?'

'That is for him to say,' said Pocahontas disgustedly. She shut her ears to anything more that the woman might say, and followed the chiefs with her eyes as they mounted the slight slope to the longhouse door. Powhatan lifted the speaking staff he was carrying, and a hush fell.

'Welcome in the name of Powhatan to our friends and brothers,' he said. 'Now that you are here, we will defeat the enemy. Rest from your journey, eat and drink, and we will take council together. If the gods are willing, the next days will see our victory.'

Hosts and guests alike shouted approval, and the leading men stooped and disappeared inside the longhouse. Pocahontas went and took her share of the work of serving the food. She hoped that she might position herself so as to be the one who took the leaders their food as they deliberated, but somehow the older women managed to ensure that the task went to someone else.

*****

John Smith guessed, without thinking, as he hurried unconcealed along the ridge-top trail towards the English camp, that the Indians would have left the camp unguarded now that their warriors were gathering, and he was right. No one challenged him until he came to the forest's edge opposite the stockade, when he saw a sudden movement above the top of the fence: someone was pointing a musket at him. He shouted and waved his arms, and in a moment the wicket-gate was opened a crack and an urgent voice called: 'Captain! Come in quick!'

'Thank God you're safe, sir!' went on the sentry, Nick Gates, breathlessly, and slammed the gate as soon as John was inside.

'What's been going on here? Why all the shooting?' he asked, trying to sound light-hearted, but a glance around the enclosure was enough to tell him that something was seriously wrong. Ratcliffe was nowhere to be seen, but most of the men were milling around the platform. Going towards it, John saw Lon Carden, the red-bearded sailor, sitting on the edge, holding his left arm above the elbow in his other hand. There was an arrow sticking deep into his upper arm, and blood had soaked his sleeve and trickled down into the gaps between his fingers.

'You ought to pull it out, man,' someone was saying.

'It won't come easy,' said Lon in a high, shaken voice, 'and surgeon, he said to leave it until he could do it for me, or it'll bleed too much.'

Someone brought Lon a cup of water and held it for him as he drank, his teeth chattering against the rim, unwilling to loosen his grip on his injured arm.

'What's the surgeon doing now?' asked John Smith. Everyone belatedly noticed he was there and turned towards him.

'He's in the hospital with young Helmsley, the alchemist, rock-man, whatever you call him, setting his arm,' someone volunteered. 'And the governor's in there with them.'

'Can anyone tell me what's happened?' asked John. 'Not you, Lon. Who else was there?'

'I was,' said Ben Macquarie from nearby. 'It was the Indians, you see, they started throwing rocks at us …'

'Where are they now? Are they likely to attack again?'

'No, they've all gone now.' Ben seemed unhurt, but exhausted and shocked; he took several deep breaths, looking around him as if bewildered, before he started his story.

'In the morning after sun-up, see, Governor Ratcliffe ordered us out in the boat, four of us …'

'Oh, he did, did he?' murmured John, with understanding and rage beginning to creep through his veins like poison.

'Master Helmsley and three of us to row him: he was supposed to go and look at the rocks in the sea-cliffs, get an idea whether there was likely to be any gold in them, any metal.'

'Didn't any of you know I ordered everyone to stay in camp today?' demanded John.

'Yes, I knew,' said Christopher Dawkins's voice behind him. John swung round. 'Don't look at me like that, _Captain _Smith,' Dawkins went on. 'I was working on the ship. Someone came and said could they take the boat, and I thought they meant for fishing. It's not up to me to watch Governor Ratcliffe every minute of the day.'

Even the usually imperturbable Dawkins was close to panic, John could tell. 'Be easy, I'm not blaming you,' he said. He knew without being told why Dawkins had spent the first day after the stockade was finished working flat-out on the ship. A seaworthy _Susan Constant_ might well turn out to be the only thing that could save all their lives in the immediate future, though they might starve later.

'So…?' he prompted, turning back to Ben.

'It was fine, flat calm, we rowed south up that creek next down towards the sea, it's got high cliffs at the head of it and a waterfall coming over. Master Helmsley took his time, going close inshore, looking at all the rocks, banging away with his hammer. And I suppose they heard us. Indians, up at the top of the falls, they sent rocks down on our heads. Jumping up and down there whooping and laughing. One of us had gone ashore to hold the boat steady, a rock split his head open, he fell in the sea stone dead.'

'Who was killed?'

'Robert Treluswell.'

John Smith drove his fist into the planks of the platform so hard he felt his knuckles split.

'God rest his soul,' he said automatically, choking inside with wild rage.

'Master Helmsley got his arm broken, and the boat was holed,' went on Ben, in full spate, but John hardly heard him. 'Me and Lon got her back, rowing and baling, any way we could. And when we were nearly back at camp, up the river come all these canoes, full of painted Indians, we rowed till we were nearly dead or they'd have cut us off from the bank. Lon got an arrow in the arm as it was. I took a shot at them and the lads in camp started firing at them too and they cleared off, thank God. I thought we'd never make it.'

'I'm glad you did,' said John and stood up. 'Tell the quartermaster to give you a measure of rum if he hasn't already. Lon, you come with me to the hospital. The surgeon will have more time to treat your arm if I relieve him of Ratcliffe.' He said it deliberately, with no 'Governor' or 'Sir John'.

'Captain, we'll be fighting the Indians now, won't we?' Ben called after him urgently.

'No, we will not,' returned John.

As he walked towards the hospital tent, supporting Lon, who was faint, he thought he heard a voice inside murmuring, then tailing off, and, as he shouldered his way in through the flap, he distinctly heard Ratcliffe ask sharply, 'So you say these crystalline veins may hold more than one kind of metal?'

The young alchemist, grey-faced, was sitting on a bench, the surgeon fastening a splint on his arm, Ratcliffe pivoting on his heel as he paced up and down.

'Here's your other customer, master surgeon,' John said without prelude. 'Keep your mind on your work. You,' he walked straight up to Ratcliffe, 'come outside with me.'

'Captain Smith!' remonstrated Ratcliffe, eyebrows arched.

'This man has an arrow wound,' said John, his voice shaking with rage, 'one has a broken bone, one's killed. This is your doing, you and your crazed greed. Where will you stop? Come outside.' He held the tent flap open for Ratcliffe and he, staring, went out.

'Captain Smith, you forget yourself,' he said reasonably.

'No,' said John, pitching his voice to carry, no longer caring who heard or what might come of it. 'But you, it seems, forgot my orders, you forgot your word that you gave me last night, you thought you could send these men off unprotected, off to find your gold behind my back, like a boy sneaking into the pantry at night to steal cakes. Your gold!'

'I am in command here…' said Ratcliffe sharply.

'I have the King's commission too, and by God I will not be taken as lightly as this! You trusted me to lead the troops, and …'

'And why do you not lead them, then?' demanded Ratcliffe, as men on all sides listened avidly while keeping their faces turned partly away. 'Since we reached land you have delayed, prevaricated, done anything but face the enemy …'

'We had no enemy until you made enemies of them!'

'Captain Smith,' protested Ratcliffe, veering into sweet reasonableness once again. 'Four men in a boat … you can hardly say I made the Indians attack them? That I could have foreseen the Indians would fling rocks on the heads of four defenceless men who were doing them no harm?' There were some growls and exclamations of agreement from the men standing nearest.

'I did foresee it, and that was why I told you to keep the men in camp while I went to treat with the Indians.'

'Well, that's all in the past now,' said Ratcliffe with the air of a man willing to start afresh. 'Surely you agree that we have no choice but to attack after what has happened.'

'On the contrary, we have every reason not to. I met one of the Indians, and I arranged to go and meet their chief under safe conduct tonight.'

There was a murmur of disbelief, and one or two of the men groaned scornfully. 'You see?' shouted Ratcliffe. 'That's how these treacherous knaves arrange things. One distracts us with parleying while the others pick us off one by one behind his back.'

John tried to get a grip on himself. 'To meet with their chief is our only chance …'

'I forbid you to meet with their chief! You can spend tonight planning our attack. Would you waste your time talking with these murderous brutes?'

'And what would you have done in their place? They didn't ask us to come here: this is their land …'

'This is _my _land!' shouted Ratcliffe violently. 'I make the laws here. And I tell you that from now on we kill the Indians on sight. Anyone who talks to any Indian will be tried for treason and hanged!'

He glared into John's face, and John stared back tight-lipped, with a sudden inward flinching of shame on behalf of his commander. He is beside himself, was his first thought. He doesn't know what he is saying, and I drove him to it in front of the men. With no thought but to save Ratcliffe's face, he said softly: 'Sir John, I spoke in haste. I beg your pardon, but I ask you to please reconsider …'

'You heard my orders!' shouted Ratcliffe again, turned on his heel and marched away to his tent.

John found himself alone. The men melted away, and he sat down on the edge of the platform and passed one hand over his forehead, still too shaken with anger to be able to form a clear idea of what had just taken place.

The camp looked peaceful and orderly under the late afternoon sun. There were some men taking firewood from a pile against the fence to start the evening's cooking fire, and down by the water's edge Mate Dawkins was conferring with the carpenter about the holed boat. Outside the armoury tent, some men were nailing planks together to make a drier store for the guns, while the master gunner tested a group on how quickly they could load and prime – but not fire – their muskets. All was outwardly as it should be, but most of the men were noticeably out of sight: in their tents, or among the trees or below the banks of the stream. Keeping out of the way of the storm; waiting to see how the land lay. The whole expedition was paralysed.

Not that it makes much difference, thought John. Look at the rabble we are. And now there are twice as many Indians as before. Are we supposed to attack them? It's a bad joke; he can't have been serious. In a few minutes I'll go and talk to him quietly, alone, and surely he must see sense.

But John was not ready for that: his mind went on spinning round what had been said, sparking with rage, unable to find a purchase anywhere. Deep down, he knew full well that he had blundered badly by losing his temper, and that he had put all the men's lives needlessly at risk, but he was still unable to admit it as he turned the whetstone of his anger. Deeper still, he had an inkling that the quarrel had made no deciding difference. Ratcliffe was doing what he had intended to do all along; John Smith had merely made it easier for him.

Hanged, indeed! he thought with biting scorn. Ratcliffe was raving. He will have to work on them for some time longer before he'll find anyone to put a noose around John Smith's neck …

The truth is, he thought with a sensation like cold water trickling down his back, he could have me hanged tomorrow by crooking his little finger. Simon Hay or any of his cronies would do it with pleasure. Christopher, Sir Richard, the ones who care about the King and the law, they wouldn't like it but they wouldn't know how to stop him. And it's my own fault. All because I was too dainty to have served him as he served me right from the start: to have said yes and done something different, got men thinking the worse of him, so that they'd all be ready when the time came for me to say: this man is leading you to your deaths, clap him in irons, I'm your governor now. Mutiny? Not your style, John Smith? Well, better it had been. What are you going to do now?

Chill at heart, he went and showed himself round the camp, finding out what everyone had been doing that day, inquiring about the food, the watches, the training. He, and everyone he spoke to, avoided the one subject that mattered. His very face and voice felt as if they were not his own, and the sunlight had an unreal quality, as if he were looking at everything through a long, dark underground passage. Ratcliffe did not reappear. Eventually John went and sat down on a rock at the water's edge and gazed out over the river, thinking soberly at last about his plans.

He knew he would have to keep his appointment with Pocahontas and try, after all, to see the Indian chief, with or without Ratcliffe's agreement. He dared not ask Ratcliffe outright to change his orders; there was the faintest chance that Ratcliffe would see reason, but a much greater one that he would physically prevent him from going. If he could come back with anything of substance, even a promise of food, it would raise his credit enough to keep him safe for the moment. But if his embassy failed, it was all up with him, and probably with the whole settlement. It was a poor chance and his hopes were low. Pocahontas herself seemed very distant from him now. The memory of her smile as she curled up beside the willow tree, the memory of how he had felt then, made him angry. Her people had wantonly killed one of his, a good man, and he blamed her in his heart. He was desolate at Robert Treluswell's death. The wife Robert had cared for so much was a widow now. How many good men died, men with everything to live for, while those like himself, with nothing to bind them to the world, took the same chances and worse and somehow lived on. Perhaps not this time, though.

Shortly before sunset, John went aboard the ship, thinking he might as well check the repairs. The _Susan Constant _was moored close to the bank, prow and stern, with a rope net stretched between a tree on the shore and a ladder up the side so that one could climb across quite easily. The ropes were mended, the canvas mostly sound, and several weak points in the planking had been reinforced. Not for the first time, he was awed at Christopher Dawkins's quiet ability to get things done, and his spirits lifted a little for the first time since his return. The hatch to the hold was open, and the smell emerging was much less foul than when they had first arrived. He looked in, and was startled to see Thomas Rowe sitting on one of the upper rungs of the companion ladder.

'Sir,' said Thomas, scrambling up in confusion.

'There you are, Thomas. I didn't know where you had got to.'

'Sorry, sir, I …'

'Stay out of the way when there's trouble,' said John, sitting down on a thwart. 'That's good sense. I'm glad you've learned it at last.'

Thomas flushed beetroot red and said nothing.

'I mean no harm by that, Thomas,' said John, looking him in the eye. 'I'm glad you happened to be here so I can tell you. There's probably going to be worse trouble, and it will be best if you keep your head right down. Take your lead from Mate Dawkins. It may end with you all having to escape by ship; stay close to him and you'll have the best chance.'

'Sir, are you going to attack the Indians?' Thomas's face was stiff from his cut with the axe, so the words came out slow and stilted.

'If Governor Ratcliffe wants to attack the Indians he will have to do it himself.'

Thomas suddenly glanced down and fidgeted.

'Were you going to say something, Thomas?'

'Only … I should have said it right away, the first day, but none of the others …'

'Yes … keep your head down: I told you to, didn't I? Still, you'd better tell me if you think it'll be useful.'

'Well … when we were building the camp the first day and the Indians came, it was Governor Ratcliffe himself who gave the order to fire. And it was he who shot that Indian. I know. I was right next to him, and I was so surprised that I let my gun go off without aiming it, and, well, you know the rest.'

'I see. So the governor knows how to shoot. That's unusual for a gentleman.'

'Yes, and he seems to think it very important. He said to me,' and Thomas's voice sounded more forced than ever, ' "Learn how to use that thing properly. A man's not a man unless he knows how to shoot."'

'You don't let that trouble you, I hope, Thomas?'

'Only because I know he doesn't like me.'

'Cheer up. He doesn't like me, either.'

Thomas stared at John in wordless anxiety.

'You heard what he said, did you?' said John. 'Well, don't you worry: I don't think he can afford to hang me just yet. Keep your head down, Thomas: obey orders, don't worry, and it may all turn out well yet. Better come back on shore with me, now. It's nearly time for the muster.'

As Thomas climbed first across the rope net, John's mind worked on the puzzle. When he had returned from his first day's exploring, Ratcliffe had seemed genuinely regretful that the skirmish with the Indians had taken place; his embarrassment had seemed unfeigned. And yet if Thomas was right, he had attacked the Indians quite deliberately. John gave up trying to read the doubleness of Ratcliffe's mind. Perhaps Ratcliffe, in the end, meant nothing, or what he meant changed completely hour by hour. It seemed a profitable way to be.

At the muster John was braced for Ratcliffe to renew his order to attack in front of the whole company, in which case he would have two possibilities: refuse and call for a mutiny, or refuse and let himself be put in irons. But Ratcliffe did not come to the muster at all. Amid his relief John felt scorn for such a show of weakness: Ratcliffe must still not feel sure of his ground: he must be hoping that John would be worn down by delay, or begin to feel that any action was better than this continuing public breach between the two of them. Or perhaps he was simply nursing his tantrum with no plan at all. What kind of leader was such a man?

Only at the end of the muster did Wiggins, the servant, come up to John and say smoothly, 'My master wished you to know that his order stands.' He went away before John could reply.

There was just one thing left to do: to make sure someone would know what had become of him when he went to parley. John went to see Sir Richard Clovelly, not Dawkins: he was afraid Dawkins, who cared for him too much, would try to argue him out of it, and he did not want to take the risk of being overheard, nor yet of parting as enemies. Sir Richard had a tent to himself and John quietly went there as darkness fell, making sure no one was loitering nearby.

Inside, a small lamp was burning on the ground. Sir Richard was sitting on the edge of his bed with his boots off, stretching, but looked across towards John in alert silence when he came in.

'I wanted to tell you,' John said, 'that I am going to meet the Indians as I said I would. I hope to be back tonight but I may be gone twenty-four hours. Please will you do anything you can to dissuade Governor Ratcliffe from attacking the Indians until I get back. I have to persuade them not to attack us: those men who arrived on the river this afternoon are their reinforcements. If I don't come back by dawn, you had better get ready to defend yourselves, or take to the ship.'

'Does he know you're going?'

'No.'

Sir Richard smiled wryly and nodded. 'God send you come back with something, or we may not be able to hold him.'

'You can if anyone can. But try and keep as many of our people alive as you can, Sir Richard. That's all I ask.'

'Do you want some clothes?' asked Sir Richard abruptly.

'Good idea. Thank you … if it doesn't get you into trouble.'

'May help you get clear of camp. As well as impressing the Indians.'

Sir Richard snuffed the lamp so that their shadows would not show on the canvas outside. When their eyes had got used to the dusk he opened a chest and took out a good cambric shirt with a silk string at the neck, a dark doublet and a sober pair of breeches. John changed into the clothes: Sir Richard was his own height and only a little broader. 'Better take this hat, too,' he said, offering a wide-brimmed slouch hat that he often wore. John crammed it over his head, covering his fair hair almost completely.

'Thank you,' said John again.

'All right. God be with you, Captain. Take care.'

John left the tent with a long stride, not stopping to look round. The moon had not yet risen and it was almost completely dark. He walked straight across to the latrines, which were near the river and screened by a woven fence of twigs. There was no one else there, and nearby the end of the palisade met the river-bank. John watched and listened for a minute or more to check that the watchman at the gates was not looking in his direction and that the patrolling guards were all out of sight. As he heard one of the men at the gate begin to talk loudly to someone at the watch-fire in the middle of the field, he edged forward, swung himself round the end of the palisade above the water and walked away into the trees.

*****

The hunting-party of young Indian men who had happened to see the foreigners in their boat earlier that day, and had attacked them, were at first elated at their exploit, cheering and embracing one another as they headed back towards the village carrying the buck they had also killed. But as they drew nearer home, they sobered. Without a word being said among them, each one separately began to be unsure whether the chief would be pleased at what they had done, and in the end they told no one.


	18. Chapter 18

**Things are moving rapidly towards a crisis now.**

**Note the addition of a little political skulduggery: I couldn't quite believe in Nakoma going straight to Kocoum about Pocahontas's shenanigans.**

**Note too that in my version John Smith rather than Grandmother Willow is the moral arbiter at this turning point for him and Pocahontas. It was time, I thought, for the much-maligned Europeans to contribute a pinch of wisdom, rather than representing mere greed, arrogance and (at best) technology, as they do in the movie. This way it's more symmetrical: while Pocahontas represents spirituality, Smith brings a sense of justice. Why would she love him if he was merely handsome and pushy?**

**Disclaimer: this is all down to Disney really. Even Thomas's feelings for John Smith. It's just too transparent!**

CHAPTER 17

Thomas had had a weary night and day: his sore face had prevented him from sleeping much and, as he lay awake, he worried about what Harry Dean had said and the way the other men had taken it up. He felt as bare as a skinned rabbit. It seemed everyone had seen his secret and, simply by seeing it, had turned it into something shameful. The mere fact that John Smith existed and was near him seemed to Thomas like a golden light over his life. He had never wanted or expected any more: any favours, any intimacy… (he blushed to press his thoughts further). He had not realised that anyone else could notice his feelings, or that there could be any harm in them. Now it was too late. Everyone thought the worst, and would tear what he valued most to pieces if they could.

All morning he hung about, keeping his head down at unimportant tasks, dodging smartly out of the way of this man and that. He dreaded John Smith's return, as it might make him reveal himself even more unmistakably, and yet he longed for him to bring back the luck of the camp and some sense of protection from Ratcliffe, from the bullies, from the Indians, from hunger and confusion. But as the day went on, his anxiety for himself lessened and was replaced by an ever-growing anxiety on behalf of the captain. When John Smith returned and quarrelled with Ratcliffe, Thomas saw for the first time how great a risk he ran. There he was, conspicuous everywhere he went in the camp, and Thomas knew that Ratcliffe could not tolerate him, or even ignore him for a single moment.

Thomas did not know what he could do to help, but an unreasoning urge forbade him to let the captain out of his sight. When the muster was over, he returned by some instinct to where he had felt safe, the place where John Smith had been in command and Ratcliffe on sufferance: the ship. There were two men on guard in the bows, but they did not see him as he stealthily climbed on board. From the crow's nest he could keep the whole camp under his eye, without himself being noticed in the dark. He climbed up the mast effortlessly as he had learned to do during the voyage, and sat there, feeling the almost imperceptible movement of the tied ship in the current, so peaceful compared to her tossing and plunging at sea. It soothed his spirits; he felt he could watch all night. He gazed at the fading band of sunset light over the forest, but soon realised that it would spoil his eyes for the shadows of the camp, and looked only downwards.

The two men on guard, men he knew only slightly, passed under him, moving to the stern of the ship, talking quietly together.

'I reckon Angel Face is a faker,' said one, and Thomas felt a stab of outrage and renewed worry. 'Never there when there's trouble – who says he's such a great soldier anyway?'

'Governor would probably manage just as well on his own,' said the other, and then they moved out of earshot.

Thomas dug his nails into his palms. Fools, idiots, why couldn't they see – ? What was he going to do?

At that moment, he picked John Smith's shape out of the shadowy forms moving among the tents: he could no more have mistaken him for anyone else than he could have taken a horse for an ox. He saw John Smith go into Sir Richard's tent and, several minutes later, come out again, wearing different clothes and with his head covered, but to Thomas just as unmistakable. Then he saw him walk towards the boundary fence. In moments, Thomas had scrambled down the mast again and was edging across the rope net to the bank. He hurried to the palisade but, by the time he reached it, John Smith had vanished. Thomas held on to the last post of the fence to keep his balance on the edge of the steep bank, and peered around it, sure that the captain had left the camp that way only moments before, but unable to see him between the darkening trees. As he strained his eyes, he suddenly felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and cried out softly in shock.

Stumbling on the edge and finding his footing just in time, he turned round. Ratcliffe was standing behind him.

Thomas stared at him, his heart pounding. He could not see the governor's face well, but he seemed to wait for a few moments, expecting Thomas to speak. When Thomas stayed silent he began talking in a low, measured voice, as if continuing something he had already been saying.

'It may be time for you to put a little distance between yourself and Captain Smith, Thomas. Names like the captain's … _favourite_ don't sound well, and you don't want your comrades' ill-will. You saw what happened to Harry Dean.'

Still Thomas said nothing, although he felt that his loathing of Ratcliffe must be almost audible.

'I want you to follow Captain Smith and find out where he's going,' went on Ratcliffe, crisply and yet with every word somehow oiled with pleasure. 'Do not be seen. If he meets with any Indians, come back and tell me at once. I want my orders obeyed from now on. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir,' said Thomas woodenly.

'In case you need to defend yourself, take this,' said Ratcliffe and held out a musket. 'Use it better than you did last time. I'm giving you one more chance, Thomas: don't disappoint me again.'

_Keep your head down, Thomas: obey orders _…

Thomas took the musket and slung it over his shoulder. Without another word he edged his way round the end of the fence and walked away, slowly and heavily, uphill under the trees. He could feel Ratcliffe looking after him, even when he was sure that the trees and the dusk were screening him from his sight.

After he had gone a hundred yards the prickling feeling in his back died away, and he wanted to slump to the ground in the shelter of a tree and give way to misery. In his mind he did, but his feet kept hurrying uphill towards the trail that he had taken when they visited the Indian village. He knew quite well that the captain must be heading there. What was he, Thomas, trying to do? Catch up with the captain and warn him? What would be the use? John Smith must already know his danger. Or obey Ratcliffe's orders? Could he be as craven as that? He only knew he could not bear to be mocked as Harry Dean had been, not for some petty breach of the rules, which would have been endurable, but for what truly lay closest to his heart. And he could not tell how he was going to save the captain. For some reason, Ratcliffe hated John Smith so much that he wanted him jeered to the gallows as a traitor, and, unless Thomas brought the proof of his treason, as a boy-lover as well. It had become more important to Ratcliffe than gold or victory or even all their lives. And Thomas did not see what he could do to stop him.

*****

In the longhouse, the decision had been taken, and it was passed out to the people just before sunset: war. The attack would take place at once, at dawn next day, before the foreigners expected it. Meanwhile, in the early part of the night, the warriors would rest; later they would dance, paint themselves and prepare. The women and children were to leave the village and camp in the woods until the outcome of the battle became clear.

Excitement was high. The Tapahannock warriors had told the villagers the story of their skirmish on the river, and it had lost nothing in the telling: it put everyone in the mood for battle.

Pocahontas bided her time. Her plan was to make each of two groups of women – her aunt's clan, and Nakoma and her family – think that she was going to be with the other, and then slip off to the willow-glade as it got dark. It seemed to work well. She lingered with Nakoma, helping to bundle her sister's little son onto his cradleboard and pack up their bedding. As they were about to leave, she announced that she would return to her aunt, and hurried to the opposite side of the village. There she hid behind a house, watched for her chance as dusk fell, and, when no one was looking, edged towards the opening in the newly built stockade. She slipped through and stood in its shadows. A pale haze on the eastern horizon showed where the moon would soon rise. A few warriors still called to one another on the fence and by the water's edge, but most were resting. Pocahontas tensed herself, measuring the distance between the stockade and the tall corn-stems on the slope, ready to run it in the shortest possible time when the moment came. Suddenly she heard a fierce whisper behind her.

'Pocahontas!'

She whirled around. 'Nakoma!'

Nakoma came close to her, her face wearing an expression, Pocahontas thought, of mixed fear and disgust.

'Don't go out there!' Nakoma hissed. 'I lied for you once. Don't ask me to do it again.'

Pocahontas glanced right and left, possessed by only one purpose, afraid that she would lose her chance. She could not take Nakoma seriously. What did this girl understand about truth and lies?

'I have to do this,' she said, almost absent-mindedly.

'How can you? A foreigner! You _touched _him! What about your father? What about our people?'

Pocahontas took a deep breath. 'I'm trying to help our people,' she explained, as if to a small child.

'Pocahontas, no! Don't!'

But Pocahontas had skimmed away and, almost in a heartbeat, disappeared into the cornfield where only a very slight movement of the branching tips revealed her passage.

Nakoma walked in at the entrance again, not bothering to hide herself, hardly aware where she was putting her feet. Her thoughts darted between outrage, fear and wounded vanity. At one moment she could hardly stretch her mind round the enormity of Pocahontas, who had always been so indifferent to young men, actually running off at night to wanton in the woods – and not even with a proper man but with … _that_. At the next, she felt furious pique at the way she had been brushed aside. Her best friend had walked away from her without speaking, as if Nakoma counted for nothing. Then those thoughts were overtaken by vague unreasoning fear. You could always rely on Pocahontas, before. There must be some witchcraft at work. How else to explain how she had behaved but by her being possessed?

Nakoma turned without thinking to walk back to her family. Someone fell into step with her, and a stately voice said, 'Nakoma. I am glad to see you.'

It was the chief's sister, Nijlon. Nakoma made a little bob of respect. She was afraid of this woman, who was able to gather in all her privileges as first lady in the tribe as if sublimely unconscious of them. Pocahontas's irreverent stories about her had only served to discomfit Nakoma further.

'Do your family have everything they need for the night?' asked Nijlon graciously. 'And for a journey tomorrow, should it be needed?'

'Yes, thank you, my lady,' said Nakoma breathlessly.

'God send we defeat the foreigners tomorrow,' went on Nijlon, 'then we can begin to breathe freely again. I am sure your brother will do his part. He fought well against the Massowomecks.'

'Not as well as Kocoum, but very well,' said Nakoma modestly.

'Ah yes, Kocoum,' said the woman, with what Nakoma thought a strangely absent-minded look. 'But what I wanted to say was … I am anxious about Pocahontas, Nakoma. I was glad to see you because I hoped that you, as her friend, might be able to share your mind with me on what we can do to keep her out of danger. In some ways Pocahontas is more like a young man than a girl. She loves danger. But in the end, she is a girl. And she is too important to take such risks. Important to her father, and to me. What can we do to help her understand?'

'I don't know,' said Nakoma, worried. 'She doesn't seem to listen to me any more.'

'Headstrong,' sighed Nijlon. 'She always was. But good at heart. What I fear is that someone may be playing on her good feeling …'

Nakoma wondered if she had misjudged Nijlon. Pocahontas had always led her to believe that Nijlon was tyrannical and jealous. Now Nakoma wondered if this dignified woman was really only concerned to do what was best for the motherless girl, even if it was uncomfortable.

They were in sight of Nakoma's family, who were lifting their bundles on to their heads. 'Are you coming, Nakoma?' cried her mother.

'Nakoma is with me,' called back Nijlon. 'Is Pocahontas there?'

'I thought she was going with you,' returned Nakoma's mother, deferentially.

Nijlon stole a sharp look at Nakoma, who knew she had seen the consternation on her face.

'Forgive me for keeping you waiting,' she called with a considerate air. 'I would just like to speak another few words to Nakoma.'

'We'll go; she can catch us up,' said Nakoma's mother. The family party moved off to join others who were threading their way between the houses and up on to the terraced hillside, some with bowls of embers in their hands that cast faint, bobbing lights along the path.

Just inside the gate was a watch-fire that was dying away, but still gave a glow that brightened as the dusk grew deeper. Nijlon put her hand under Nakoma's elbow and guided her close to the fire. Then she gazed shrewdly and steadily into her face under finely arched, black brows.

'Nakoma, where is Pocahontas?'

'I don't know,' said Nakoma desperately.

'This can't go on, Nakoma. Her life may be in danger. I think that if you know anything, you should tell me.'

Nakoma said nothing.

'If there is anything happening that might harm her standing,' said Nijlon unhurriedly, 'the important thing is for us women to find out and put a stop to it before the men get to know. We can be discreet, can't we? What never becomes known, might as well not have been. I'm sure that something can be done, quietly.'

'I know where she goes … the place where she goes alone,' said Nakoma significantly, playing for time. 'She took me there when we were children. It's just at the foot of the rapids, on the near shore.'

'Well, that may be very useful to know, thank you, Nakoma, dear. Is there anything else?'

Nakoma suddenly felt something within her refuse to carry her burden any longer. Let someone else decide what to do with it. She put her hands to her face.

'I'm afraid she's … bewitched.'

'What makes you say so?'

'I think she's … gone to meet … one of the foreigners.'

Nakoma expected Nijlon to exclaim in outrage and disbelief, and when she did not, felt curiously steadied. She glanced into Nijlon's face and saw only a frowning look of consideration.

'She's bewitched, I'm sure: she must be under a spell,' repeated Nakoma.

'That does make things difficult. How are we going to get her out of this? If she once comes back, there is a drink I can give her … but those grey wolves may mean to kidnap her, or worse. Someone will have to go to look for her.'

'Please … is there anything you can do?'

Nijlon seemed to consider a little longer. Then, 'Yes,' she said. 'Don't fret, Nakoma. I'll send someone … with a story that will save her face. Her father won't need to know. Go along to your mother now. You did well by telling me.'

Nakoma went after her mother, but her heart, lighter at first, became even more sore and doubtful as she went on. In the end she told her mother that the chief's sister had given her a task to do back at the village, and walked back to wait. She dared not go after Pocahontas herself, but she had to see what would happen.

Nijlon, meanwhile, went back to her house, where her children were waiting with a young warrior in charge of them. She sent this man away to a distance, and then spoke to her eleven-year-old son:

'Go down to the longhouse, find Kocoum, and bring him back here to me.'

'But, Mother, the warriors are resting for battle now: he'll be angry.'

'Never you mind, my boy. Tell him I want him, alone and at once. If you want to be a chief, this is your first task.'

When the boy had gone, she sat down in front of the house with an air of graceful determination, settling her cloak and earrings on her shoulders.

'"I want Kocoum to be chief after me, with Pocahontas as his wife!" she murmured scornfully. 'We'll see about that.'

*****

In the beginnings of moonlight John Smith was able to find the willow glade again without getting bogged down or immovably tangled in undergrowth. It seemed a brooding place in the night. The river sucked and murmured quietly. Grey moths whirred through the air, and there was a stealthy scuttering of small creatures among the leaves. Knots and fissures stood out harsh black on the faint silver-grey of the gnarled branches. The presence that had seemed so full of goodwill in the bright sunlight, before disaster struck, now seemed menacing – or was it only his own anger and unbelief that made it seem so?

He had been there for a few minutes, with the light growing a little, before he noticed Pocahontas leaning motionless on the great tree-trunk. He started. How could she have been there without his sensing it? Was her shadowy shape in the darkness real? Had she anything to do with him?

'Pocahontas!'

She spun round quickly. 'John Smith,' she breathed.

She came close to him, a look of urgency on her face. 'We must be careful,' she conveyed to him, by words and signs. 'There are men near here: they beached their boats and some have stayed to guard them. We must be quiet.'

'Let us not wait, then. Let us go at once,' he replied.

She looked anxiously into his face. 'What happened this afternoon? When you returned? Was it bad?'

He did not trouble to keep the anger and apprehension out of his voice. 'One of my men has been killed by yours. And my chief forbade me to come and speak with your father. He wants war at once.'

Pocahontas's response astonished him. Her face closed in an expression of resignation and grief. She at once moved away to the water's edge and stood still, facing him. 'It is all over, then,' she said. 'I am glad you told me.' And as he stood silent in surprise, she said '_An-na_,' and made the formal gesture of farewell she had shown him at their first meeting.

'No … Pocahontas,' he said, urgently, beginning to see how she had misunderstood him. 'I still want to speak to your father. I still want to try to make peace. We must.'

*****

Pocahontas groped for meaning, bewildered. This man was a warrior and his people were in battle order. His chief had given him a command. (Almost she had felt relief at what that command was: it left her desolate, but it made things so much simpler.) And he was proposing to disobey that command, and implying she should not be surprised. Surely only the most worthless of men would do such a thing. Did he think she expected him to throw away his honour, betray his own people?

He looked different from before: he was dressed differently, more finely, but it was his strained and worn face that made him look like a stranger: the look of an outcast, it seemed to her. Had she been mistaken in him all along?

'You would turn your back on your chief … why?' she asked, slowly, with dread in her heart.

He passed his hand over his face, tugging at his hair.

'Because he is wrong,' he began, struggling to explain in cumbersome words and gestures. 'Because our people are few and hungry and weak … we cannot defeat you, although he thinks we can … we are lonely and far from home, and it makes the men mad: I mean, they do not see what is really there. I do not want them all to die. But …' he started to speak afresh as if it were the beginning of what he really wanted to say – 'even if none of that were true I would do the same, Pocahontas. Because … I love you, and I love your people in you. I want to know them better.'

He gestured 'love' by putting his arms together before him in an embrace, and Pocahontas felt her heart leap violently. Had they not both known this from the beginning? But to speak the word – what terrible danger would they have to face all at once, now that it was spoken? To say a thing aloud was to prepare to act on it.

But then he said something more, taking a pace forward: 'To kill them would not be right.'

As he said that word 'right' in his foreign language a look like summer lightning flickered over his face. It was clearly a word of power, and Pocahontas wondered what its exact meaning might be. She knew what was good, fit, proper. She knew of duty, law, piety, truth. It was plainly something like those, but more. It looked, in his face, like a command greater than any of them. It could somehow exist outside the bonds of god and kin. It might force a man to die alone and disgraced and still sustain him. She both reached towards it and shrank from it, but she understood why she had trusted John Smith from the beginning: because of _right_, something in him that pointed the way unfailingly, that balanced the gentleness and strength she saw in him.

'Then let us go and speak to my father,' she said, triumphantly and gaily, and threw her arms around him.

At first the touch, warm, pliant and quicksilver-light, startled him like a burn, or like the twist of a snake in the grasp of someone who thought they had seized a branch. He stepped back and looked at her, astonished: she still held him by the arms and looked into his face with shining eyes. Her pride and self-possession had seemed untouchable; and the distance between himself and her people, a distance of hundreds of years and thousands of miles, could not be lightly crossed, however greatly they loved each other. Simple courtesy forbade it. As he looked at her, he saw she understood this, had given up none of her pride, but still would not let him go. Admiration for her courage rose in him like the great wing-beat of an eagle, and he gave way: he took her in his arms.

For a moment it was as if they wrestled together as he drew her close and she tried to grasp him entire, to bury her fingers in his hair, to measure his whole height and breadth with a hand across his shoulders. _Mine, mine _… He knew that what he had sensed the first time they met, and what he had felt earlier beside the willow-tree, was now upon him. He had made his choice, and found his home. His burden was laid down once and for all, the barrier between himself and the world was broken, he was swept along drowning in the water of life, unresisting. As he kissed her he felt his parched soul drinking in great draughts. It was comfort and ease beyond telling, and yet ecstasy and challenge, as if it were living fire he were drinking and not just water. What could be difficult, after this? What could they not do, together, now that they had braved the gulf between them and found that it was life-giving?


	19. Chapter 19

**So, Pocahontas and John share their supreme moment. You wouldn't believe it, I put off writing that scene for YEARS because I couldn't imagine how I would do justice to the importance of the moment and the beauty and delicacy of the animation: I was afraid it would turn out cheesy. You can't think how pleased I am that it worked for all of you!**

**But now, alas, what Laur aptly called The Kocoum Debacle cannot be put off any longer. Here comes the prison hut sequence too. PocahontasJohnSmithForever, you will forgive me not using precisely the same dialogue as the movie. I started off by doing so, and was always inspired by it, but found in the end that the lines seemed a bit too stylised for the more naturalistic effect I was aiming for. I liked the song, too, but felt that John and Pocahontas would really have their minds more on practical matters at this point. It's a great song, but don't you feel 'For ***'s sake, if you've got time to sit here and sing, why not try RESCUING him or something?'**

**Disclaimer: the Disney Corporation invented these characters in their present form.**

CHAPTER 18

Thomas thought he had discovered the trail, but there was little to mark it except that the trees stood further apart than elsewhere, and that beyond it the ground seemed to slope gently downward again. It was now so dark that each tree loomed into view, greyly, only when he was within five paces of it, and he could not even be sure that he was moving in a straight line. He tripped on roots and slipped on banks of compacted fallen leaves. An owl hooted somewhere, far away, and behind him he could just hear a shout from a watchman at the camp. It was his lifeline to the only human company he had on this whole continent. He was afraid to go any further: he would become irrevocably lost in a tangled, enclosed web of blackness.

Just as he despaired, he found that he could see a little better. The moon was rising. Very soon he could see obstacles before he walked into them, and before long the whole forest was transformed into a cathedral nave of silver and black. The great, well-spaced trees receded into the distance in front of him. The path he should take was marked out in shadows. The way was straight, and, more than two hundred yards in front, Thomas glimpsed the man he was following, walking straight and briskly, not stopping to glance behind. Of course Captain Smith had no reason to think he would be followed and no reason, now, to hide: he had even taken off the broad-brimmed hat, the better to see his way.

Thomas made between one and two miles of distance in a dreamlike way, sighting John Smith from time to time, wondering if he should run or call to him, but in the end letting the silence and mystery of the forest stifle any decision. Then, suddenly, between one clear viewpoint and the next, Smith had disappeared. He must have turned off the trail, either to the left or to the right.

All Thomas could do was guess. He guessed for the water rather than the landward side, and headed downhill. He ploughed through a bowl of thick, dry fallen leaves, and skirted a huge brake of brambles. Then he could hear the river, and also, a great deal too close, the voices of Indians.

He listened intently, but there was only one unhurried voice speaking and another answering: no challenge, no English words, nothing to show anything unexpected had happened. But if John Smith had not met these Indians, no more did Thomas wish to. And how was Thomas to find him?

At length he decided to climb back up to the trail and look carefully along it for any waymark that might have shown John Smith exactly where to turn off. After several minutes of anxious searching, he found one, a little further along the trail than he had first gone: four branches of a sapling birch tied together in a bunch as they grew. At this point, again, he headed directly downhill.

He soon found the ground growing wetter, and had a hard time moving quietly as he extricated his boots from one boggy mire after another. He found what seemed to be the head of a muddy creek running into the river, skirted it, was immediately confronted by another, managed to jump over that, wondered what on earth, in this maze of land and water, John Smith might be doing, and, barely a minute later, found out.

He thought he heard soft voices. He took a few more cautious steps, and with the barrel of his musket gently pushed aside a hanging curtain of willow leaves.

He was looking across a channel of water into a clearing, almost an island in the river. And in the middle of the clearing, in the moonlight, stood Captain Smith, and a half-naked, black-haired girl with her arms wound round his neck. A savage girl!

Thomas groped frantically for the proper response. He grinned sardonically in the dark. So this was what the captain meant by parleying with the Indians. He thought of the mixture of admiration and coarseness with which his schoolfellows would have greeted such a scene. How Ratcliffe would laugh ... Deep down Thomas felt shocked, somehow betrayed. John Smith was kissing the girl; his face, drained of colour in the moonlight, was grave and rapt; he had completely forgotten about Thomas and his comrades, gone into another world where none of them mattered, only _she_.

*****

On the other side of the clearing, Kocoum was watching the same scene. His feelings were unmixed, scalding and unbearable.

He had set out in anger, expecting only to give the lie to that hag in the village, the chief's sister: and yet it was true. Pocahontas. _His_ bride! How he had waited patiently outside her father's door, would have waited for years – while she stood there allowing, no, willing this corpse-faced, demon invader to ... He could not pronounce the words, even to himself. Instead he shrieked a war cry and flung himself forward through the branches. He was upon the stranger almost before he and Pocahontas could draw apart.

*****

Thomas saw the Indian bear John Smith to the ground, striking out furiously with his axe. All thought left him except the need to save the captain. He heard the girl crying out, and as he frantically readied his musket, half saw her seize the Indian by the arm and try to drag him off, only to be flung aside and land winded on the ground. Thomas splashed through shallow water to reach the edge of the clearing, and skirted the fighters, trying to get a vantage point for a shot. He was only yards away but there was no sign that they saw him. The Indian was crouching over John Smith, now grasping a stone knife in both hands and pushing it downwards, against the captain's grip on his forearm, to drive the point into his neck. The captain was unarmed, Thomas thought in panic; his heart was not in the fight, while the Indian was possessed by murderous rage; he was sure to kill him.

The girl, who had got to her feet, cried out again and caught hold of the Indian's right arm. This time she pulled more strongly. And Thomas, looking along the barrel of his gun, saw the man come nearly upright, his bare chest exposed, Captain Smith still on the ground, the girl to one side. He found his hands were shaking and, with a tremendous effort, he steadied them. This time he must shoot straight. What shot would he fire in all his life that was more important? Now! He took aim at the left of the two red painted marks on the Indian's chest, and fired.

The shot roared out, appallingly loud, the recoil making Thomas stagger backwards. Through the smoke he saw the Indian seem to straighten – making him think for an instant that he had missed, after all – then sway on his feet, put out one hand to try to save himself, and slowly overbalance backward, splashing into the shallow edge of the river, where the dark water lapped his face.

Thomas ran forward. 'Is he…?' It was the first time he had killed. Panic and disbelief overcame him.

The girl, kneeling in the water at the warrior's side, turned her face to Thomas, ugly with grief and horror. John Smith had stood up. The three people left alive in the clearing stared at one another as if they were all strangers. The girl whispered a few frozen words, then, as Thomas dazedly stepped forward – for what? to see if the man were really dead? to ask pardon for what he had done? – she leaped at him like a wild cat, screaming.

John Smith threw his arms around her, trying to hold her back gently. 'Pocahontas – it won't help – he was only…' She turned to John, thrusting him away, sobbing.

There was no help for it, for any of them. Already there were other voices among the trees, coming swiftly nearer. The men guarding the boats had heard the cries and the shot and were running up, shouting to each other. John Smith turned from the girl to Thomas:

'Thomas,' he snapped, 'get out of here!'

Thomas hesitated. He couldn't leave John Smith, couldn't run away from what he had done.

'Go!' repeated John, louder, jerking his head. Thomas knew an order when he heard one. He ran, loosely, musket swinging, under the cover of the trees. As he went he broke out in tears. He never expected to see his captain again, and the last look he had had from him was the first that had held no kindness for Thomas, no recognition: that had no energy to spare from the task in hand.

John Smith now waited for things to go as they would. Even as he fought for his life with the young warrior he had known that his battle was lost. For him to live, the young man had had to die, and the Indians would not forgive that: not even, surely, Pocahontas. She would love him no longer, although the last waves of the dreamlike surge of passion still lapped over him. But he could not, if he wanted to, have lifted his hand against her people any more. As for fleeing, what was left for him at the English camp now? He moved a little away from Pocahontas, faced the approaching voices, and waited the few moments before the warriors raced into the clearing. Four of them immediately surrounded him. Three wrenched his arms behind his back and held him, the fourth brandished a spear in his face. He managed one glance back towards Pocahontas as they dragged him away, but she was not looking at him. She had gone into the water to kneel beside Kocoum's head.

Three more men went across to the shallows and looked down at Kocoum with grave, set faces. They saw at once that there was nothing to be done. They spoke to each other softly, knelt down and gently lifted his dead body onto their shoulders. Pocahontas supported his hanging head as water streamed from his long black hair. They utterly ignored her and walked slowly off with their burden.

Pocahontas stayed where she was for some time, frozen, too stunned even to move. At last time crawled into motion again, and she with it. With dragging steps she followed the receding voices back towards the village. Kocoum's falling hand, heavy in the grip of death, had caught in her necklace and broken it, and the fragments remained lying on the ground where they had fallen.

*****

When John Smith reached the Indian village with his captors he could see that the news of what had happened had been sent on ahead. Men lined the path from the stockade to the open space with the carved posts. They jostled each other to get a view, shouted, stared, and made signs as if to avert something evil. A woman was crying. The men carrying Kocoum's body went forward and laid it down carefully in the space between the posts. The woman, clearly the dead man's mother, came and threw herself down beside him, tearing at her grey hair, sobbing and moaning one word or phrase over and over again. The nearer onlookers seemed stunned. Thomas had killed someone of importance, there could be no doubt of it.

Down the slope from the longhouse came a tall man in a long cloak, carrying a spear, flanked by two warriors: unmistakably the chief. He stood looking down at the body. He closed his eyes and held his spear high for a few moments. Then he looked outward. His shoulders rose and settled, as if he were taking a hold on his grief and anger and laying them on one side, before his voice rang out in a question.

John heard the leader of the guard reply, without understanding him: except that, right at the end of his account, came the name 'Pocahontas', after which he checked himself, as though knowing he had said too much, but not sorry to have said it.

The chief turned to look at John, and gave an order with a sweep of his hand: and for the first time John realised just how insolent he and his men had been, carving out a camp for themselves uninvited, within a few miles of the stronghold of a ruler like this.

It was two miles from the willow-glade to the village. John was dazed: he had been hauled onward, his arms nearly pulled out of their sockets, made to stand while they tore Sir Richard's good doublet off him and searched him for armour and weapons, tied his wrists, and then argued furiously whether to march him any further or kill him at once. He had been a prisoner before and knew that there were ways to make it better. You let it all wash over you and eventually your chance came: to say something unexpected, to catch them off balance, remind them you were a man too. But he could say nothing to these Indians. They handled him with convulsive violence, as though they both wanted to damage him and hated to touch him. He was loathsome to them. As they pushed him stumbling over the threshold of the longhouse and he scanned the grim faces of a group of seated older men, and more young warriors who lined the walls, he knew that if he had ever wished for a day when his handsome face would not help him at all, he had his wish now.

They forced him to his knees in front of the chief and held him there; a man behind him wound his fingers in his hair and dragged his head back. It felt like a deliberate mockery of the caresses he had been given such a short time before. Oh God, how quickly the draught of life had been snatched away!

He tried to rally himself. It was not the way he had hoped to meet Pocahontas's father. Yet here he was: it was what he had planned for. Come, Smith! Your charm, your address, your manners! You've used them in worse straits before … But what could he say? Could he say, 'Do not fight us, for hundreds of you will die?' This man would not be impressed by vulgar threats. 'Do not fight us, out of kindness to my people?' What possible claim had he on their kindness, after what had happened? That young man outside was dead, on his account, even if not by his hand. 'Do not fight us, for I love your daughter?' Worst of all. Above all, he must say nothing of that, though it filled his mind and heart.

He said nothing.

The unreadable eagle eyes stared through him; the spear that the chief held levelled and came within an inch of his throat. For the second time in an hour he expected to die on the spot. He held still and clenched his teeth. The spear-point moved away. He swallowed in a dry throat. Not now. Later.

'Your weapons are strong, but now our anger is stronger,' said the chief. 'You will feel it, you and your folk.'

'But Father…' All eyes turned to the doorway of the longhouse when they heard the clear, desperate voice. Pocahontas stood there.

John's heart thundered. She was still fighting for him. He looked at the ground, trying to shut his ears, willing himself not to do anything that would give away her secret or harm her further. Who knew what these people did to disgraced women? Don't try, he pleaded with her silently; if I must die, do I have to see them hurt you as well?

*****

Powhatan looked at her. There was a look he had as chief that could make the fiercest warriors draw back, that he had never turned on his daughter before. He did so now, in front of his men.

'I told you to stay in the village. You disobeyed me. You have shamed your father!'

'I only wanted peace,' said Pocahontas, and although she still spoke clearly she knew there was no strength behind the words. They sounded utterly foolish. She was crushed, left with only a shadow of her old self.

'Because of your folly,' Powhatan said, outrage weighing every word, 'Kocoum is dead!'

Pocahontas was silent. What more could she say? It was true.

'This is not your place,' said the chief. 'Go, before you disgrace yourself any more.'

After a few moments, she turned and stumbled out.

Powhatan was thankful. He did not want to know what his daughter's part in this affair had been, and he did not want anyone else to know or guess. How dared she come to a men's place, meddling in men's business? How would the scandal ever be lived down? For the moment, there was the fate of this raider to decide.

'Did one of you bring this man's weapon?' he asked the guards.

'We did not find it,' one said, rather foolishly.

'That was not well done,' he said, noting in his mind who they were.

'Our friends are still searching over there, Chief.'

The Tapahannock chief spoke out. 'Three of these are my men. I will discipline them later.'

'I thank you,' said Powhatan. 'Let us set the matter of their punishment aside until after the battle; that may bring other needs. But you see we have no proof.'

Though the guards seemed sure this man had killed Kocoum, he doubted it. Even though his heart burned at the death of his kinsman and the ruin of his well-laid plans, he was not prepared to let all discernment leave him. It even occurred to him to wonder if some of his own men had killed Kocoum, using the presence of the foreigner as a blind. Not everyone had wanted Kocoum to be chief; jealousy and power could be poison.

'Was it you who killed Kocoum?' Powhatan asked bluntly.

The foreigner, still kneeling and pinioned, understood the question. He said 'Yes' in the Tenakomakah language, but speaking the word hoarsely and strangely.

Powhatan was even more puzzled. Anyone who had killed a warrior like Kocoum would want to boast of it, even in enemy hands. He was almost sure that what the man said was not true. Yet there was truth in his face. In fact, if he had not known this man for a robber and an infidel, he would have supposed that he was a man of worth. Fearing that he would allow himself to be bewitched, Powhatan drew his gaze away. Either the man was telling the truth and he was a murderer; or he was not and he was a liar. What were the odds?

'What is to be done with him?' he asked the other councillors.

'Let us take him to the foreigners' camp when it gets light, and see if they will agree to leave in return for his life,' said the Tapahannock chief. 'And if they will not, we can kill him and then the rest of them.'

Kekata reached for the speaking staff. 'I am unwilling to bargain with them,' he said. 'It may be walking into a trap. I was warned of their deceit. It may be unfathomable.'

'He may help us fathom it,' said one of the lesser headmen. 'He understands our language. Ask him what they are here for, and what magic they hold over us.'

'He does not speak our language,' said Powhatan. 'See how he watches. He understands nothing.'

'I cannot believe that,' said the headman. 'Even the men from the far south understand some of our words. How can he not understand any human speech?'

'You see he does not.'

'I don't believe it,' said the headman again. 'Ask him how they can be defeated. If he pretends not to understand, fire will loosen his tongue.'

'I forbid it,' said Powhatan angrily. 'Now above all, we must keep ourselves clean before the gods. If we kill him, we must kill him as a conquered warrior.'

'Kill him now, then,' said the Tapahannock chief.

A murmur of agreement came from the others.

Kekata had been looking at the captured man, and now he moistened his lips and seemed to draw himself up. 'He must die to appease Kocoum's spirit, and to help us to victory tomorrow,' he said. 'We should kill him at sunrise in the appointed place. That way the gods will be with us.'

'Then are we to keep him all night?' asked one.

'He can be bound and guarded,' said Powhatan.

Not all the others liked it, but they seemed ready to submit. Powhatan lifted the speaking staff. 'He dies at sunrise, then.'

'Agreed,' they all said.

It was due to the prisoner's honour as a warrior to explain this decision to him, so some of the young men put on a dumb show to convey it. Being young and tensed for battle, they laughed a little as they did so. His response disappointed them. It was clear that he understood, but he broke into no death-song or chant of defiance. He merely bent his head as if it was what he had expected, and continued to look at them in silence, with eyes that most of them could not judge for truth or untruth, that were merely light and still and despairing, like a trapped wolf's.

'Take him away, then,' ordered Powhatan, and it was done.

*****

Pocahontas sat curled with her arms round her knees in the shadow of the longhouse. Shame and remorse, her father's anger and the rejection of the gods, crushed and flayed her. She wished she never had to move or be seen by anyone again.

Her necklace was broken. She was no bride. Kocoum's face filled her mind's eye, set in bitter condemnation, cursing her as he died. The more she tried not to remember that look, the more it terrified her. Surely his angry spirit was nearby and would avenge itself. It made no difference that she had liked him on the whole, had never wished him any harm. What she had meant was of no concern to anyone; only what she had done mattered. And what had she done? She saw her love for John Smith through her people's eyes now, as a shameful betrayal. She, the daughter of the chief, to behave as she had! Nakoma knew, the guards guessed; it was as if she could already feel the unspoken, unconscious condemnation spreading through the village, ready to cast her out. Her people were strong, and her lover was now nothing but a degraded prisoner, a thing, as good as dead. She could scarcely remember the passion she had felt when they embraced.

And yet she had not imagined it. Nor had she imagined the chance for peace which was now gone; now there would certainly be war, if she could not induce her father to spare the foreigner – and he would never listen to her.

Where had she slipped – where had she gone wrong? A few days ago she had been so carefree. What had brought her to this utter disaster, in which she was to blame for everything, and anything she did would only mesh her and those she loved even deeper in it? A few days, a few scarcely noticed choices, and now this. Could she not somehow have her turn over again, as she had sometimes had in children's games, and make it all not to have been?

After a while she realised she was not alone: someone huddled beside her. It was Nakoma. Pocahontas glanced at her face. Nakoma looked as remorseful and shaken as she did.

'Pocahontas ...' said Nakoma, her voice wavering, 'it was my fault … I told Nijlon.'

Pocahontas stared at her. So this was all her aunt's doing.

'I was afraid for you ... I thought I was doing right,' confessed Nakoma, close to tears.

Should she fly at Nakoma, claw her face, fling bitter words at her? Good work, you meddling bitch: with one wag of your tongue you've killed both the men who loved me? What was the use? How did Nakoma's meddling compare with her own?

'I am to blame,' she said leadenly. 'Kocoum is dead, the other one will die; I have killed them.'

There was something Nakoma could do. 'Come with me,' she said, and pulled Pocahontas to her feet.

They walked to a hut at the edge of the village. Two young men with spears stood outside: one was Nakoma's brother. Nakoma stood with her hand on Pocahontas's arm and spoke up:

'Pocahontas wants to look into the eyes of the man who killed her cousin, Kocoum.'

The two hard-faced boys looked at each other suspiciously. They were deeply distrustful of the foreign prisoner, but it was a demand they were not allowed to refuse. 'Be quick,' said Nakoma's brother, standing a little away from the deerskin that hung over the door.

Pocahontas lifted the skin noiselessly, stepped inside and let it fall. John Smith sat with his back to her in the empty hut, against its central post behind which his hands were tied. He seemed not to hear her come in: he shifted a little and then stayed still, his head bowed, the circle of moonlight that came through the smoke-hole shining palely on his hair. Pity, and the horror that clings round a creature marked for death, twisted her stomach. She almost crept out again without speaking to him. Yet that seemed too ignoble, besides being ungrateful to Nakoma. Instead she went round in front of him and hesitantly stepped nearer, then crouched before him. At last he looked up.

'Pocahontas!'

His face lit up, keen and alive. In that moment she knew why she had done everything, and that she would do it again. She would not accept anyone's condemnation, not even Kocoum's. But how could John Smith himself not blame her? She dared not embrace him, but barely touched his shoulder.

'Forgive me,' she whispered.

'Can you forgive me?' he said.

She bent over and a dry sob shook her.

'Never mind, Pocahontas.' For a brief moment, he smiled at her. 'But listen … do not stay here any longer. There will be war now and it will be terrible.' His words were a halting mixture of languages; she saw him move as if he would help the words

with his hands as he had always done before, but uselessly now. 'Go, leave … when it is over, no one will remember tonight.'

'It would have been better if we had never met; then none of this would have happened,' said Pocahontas bitterly.

'Pocahontas,' he said gently, 'look at me …', and he waited without speaking until she was forced to look straight at him, and see what she had brought him to. His eyes blazed in his pale face. 'This. This is better: for me. If I die, it is better than not knowing you.'

He was speaking the truth. It hurt in her veins like fire. She gripped his arm, as his hand was out of reach.

Nakoma appeared in the doorway. 'Pocahontas...'

Already? She sobbed aloud.

'I am with you,' she thought he said to her. 'Live. Help your people.'

She could not kiss him, with the guards waiting outside and the certainty of his death weighing down like stone. She only caressed his head and face as she stood up, and he moved his head to press his lips against her hand as it passed them. She sensed him turning to keep her in sight as long as possible as she stepped to the door and stooped to go out.

Outside, Nakoma spoke to Pocahontas gently but got no answer. At last, sadly, she went away and left her alone.

Pocahontas walked down to the edge of the river, where her canoe was. She sat on a stone and put her feet in the dark water, nearer to tears than she had been yet. The love she had felt was alive, but powerless, curled and vulnerable somewhere far down in her heart, trying to keep out of sight of the scorn of her people. At least it was there, a smouldering, covered fire: John Smith had brought it back to life for her, but what had she done for him? She realised with self-hatred that he, who was about to die, had comforted her, but she, who was alive and safe, had not said a single comforting word, or even dared to give him a frank embrace. What must he be feeling now?

She sat there a long time. There began to be more stirring and noise in the village. Men passed where she sat, carrying weapons. None paid any attention to her. The fire in the central space, behind her, flared up brightly and a low drumming and chanting began. They must be getting ready for battle tomorrow, already. It had begun: nothing she could do could prevent it any more. How easy just to sit in the darkness of the night, in the darkness in her heart, and let the hours slip away, until it was too late to do anything even if she had the strength ...

She climbed noiselessly into her canoe, pushed off and turned the paddle in the water, steering for the middle of the stream.


	20. Chapter 20

**Thomas is not as green as he is cabbage-looking, but I've got him fairly well stymied here.**

**Disclaimer: Disney characters mostly but with my own spin ...**

CHAPTER 20

As soon as he was in sight of the camp, Thomas shouted. 'Help! Help!' he yelled, and quickened his run, his feet thudding on the tree-roots. The sentries standing on the walkway inside the fence jumped to the alert.

'Thomas!'

'What's the matter, boy?'

Thomas stumbled through the gate, shouting and gasping for breath. Two or three men came from beside the watchfire to catch him by the shoulders. 'Steady, lad! What's going on?' 'It's Captain Smith!' Thomas was crying. 'They got him!'

'Who?'

'The Indians! Captured him! Dragged him off …'

Lights were showing inside several tents, and men coming out.

'The Indians! Filthy brutes!'

'Where?'

'Where'd they take him?'

'How many of them?'

'What were you doing there?'

Already a crowd was gathering, and the questions clapped round Thomas's head until it spun; but he was not as distraught as he looked. The first part of his plan had worked: he had deliberately entered the camp making as much hue and cry as possible, so that all the men would know that John Smith had been captured, and might force Ratcliffe's hand. If he told Ratcliffe first, the news might go no further. The governor might be well pleased for the Indians to do his work for him.

'We've got to save him!' cried Thomas. 'He'd do the same for any of us.'

'Thomas is right; we've got to do something!' declared Ben.

'And so we shall!' Ratcliffe's voice rang crisp and commanding as he strode up to the men. 'We have tolerated too much already,' he went on, drawing the circle in around himself. 'Captain Smith tried every means to deal with the savages gently, no blame to him, but look how they've repaid him! We shall teach them a lesson.'

Mutterings of agreement and outrage rose from the group. Thomas extricated himself and stood directly in front of Ratcliffe, expecting that the next thing the governor would do would be to ask him to report. He had ruled out telling the truth: to say that it had all happened because of a girl might be to sign Smith's death warrant, and he could not bear to confess that he himself had killed a man. He was running over his story feverishly in his mind, yet Ratcliffe ignored him.

'At daybreak, we attack!' he cried.

The men cheered. Some came with armfuls of fuel for the watchfire and piled it until fountains of sparks flew thirty feet into the air and the whole camp, already bright with moonlight, was lit up like day. Ratcliffe urgently turned to one man, then another. He called the bugler and got him to blow a blast that would summon anyone who might still be sleeping. While people gathered, he had the master gunner fetched and was soon deep in a discussion about the possibilities of bringing cannon to the attack. Sir Richard Clovelly was brought to join the group and made to describe the approaches to the Indian village in detail with his huntsman's eye. By the time everyone was present, there were the makings of a plan, and Ratcliffe gave orders for the men to prepare their weapons and supplies and divide into groups, whose leaders he chose. There was a rush for the stack of muskets, and the whetstone was hauled into the firelight.

Thomas stood by himself, caught up in the battle-fever yet bewildered. After the paralysis and indecision of the last days, everyone was, of a sudden, inspired, united, each working like ten men, giving of their best to the common endeavour: and all because of that one word, 'attack'. All this force had been held back by John Smith alone. Had he been right?

It was war. It meant killing. It meant murder. Though the killing Thomas himself had done haunted him, it would soon be swallowed up in the general rush: they would all be at it. But had anyone thought what good it would do? Would it even save John Smith? Perhaps he was dead already, or dying some terrible slow death … and the governor, Thomas was sure, did not care. He wanted both to get rid of John Smith, and to massacre the Indians, and the news Thomas had brought served his turn very well: Thomas himself no longer mattered in the least.

As he stood indecisive and wretched, he suddenly felt a touch on his elbow. Sir Richard Clovelly and Mate Dawkins flanked him. They led him a little away from the fire, behind the armoury hut.

'Now tell us, Thomas Rowe,' said the mate, 'as the governor doesn't seem interested, what happened? Because this attack is all very well, but when Captain Smith went, he left very clear orders about not attacking the Indians, even if he didn't come back, so Sir Richard says.'

'We can still stop this,' said Sir Richard. 'When you say they captured him: what happened exactly? Are you sure they meant him harm?'

Thomas stared, wondering what to say. _Meant him harm_ … if they had seen what he had …

'If they just marched him off a bit roughly,' the mate pursued, 'that might not mean anything. He'd have them eating out of his hand in half an hour. The captain's a cool customer, he can blag his way out of pretty well anything, I've seen him do it.'

'And the last thing we want to do is queer the pitch for him,' said Sir Richard.

How much to tell? Thomas still could not bring himself to speak of the man he had killed.

'No, I'm sure,' he said unhappily. 'They burst out on him … I saw … he'd been kissing this girl.'

Both Dawkins and Sir Richard gaped in utter consternation. 'A _girl_?' said the mate. 'Oh, God.'

Sir Richard released Thomas's shoulder and turned back to face the fire. 'Well, that's it,' he said tightly. 'I don't suppose we'll see him alive again. A girl … would you have believed it …?'

'No, I wouldn't,' said Dawkins, 'and I'm not sure I do now. But I'll tell you one thing, whatever sort of a fool John's been, I'll have a few of them for this.' He walked off purposefully towards the whetstone and the pile of swords that lay beside it.

'Get yourself ready, Thomas,' said Sir Richard. 'Cheer up. We'll have a good slap at them, whatever happens.'

Thomas was left alone. Even they had joined the battle-frenzy: laconic Sir Richard, level-headed Mate Dawkins, not even they could think of anything that might really help. He went to his tent and got his kit-box, and sat cleaning his musket in the light of the fire, the glare and smoke hurting his eyes, the constant hubbub ringing in his ears, and in his mind the endless question: what could he do? What could he do? He was elbow to elbow with other men, but spoke to none of them – many did not even know that he had brought the news – until someone jogged his elbow. It was Ben Macquarie.

'Hey,' said Ben. 'I thought you might like to know – some of the lads and me just went to the governor and asked him if we couldn't have a go at springing the captain while it's still dark, just a few of us. I thought it'd be better.'

Thomas's heart leaped. 'What did he say?'

'Nothing doing,' said Ben regretfully. 'He says we mustn't. I told him straight, I'm an old sheep-stealer and surely stealing a man isn't too much different from stealing sheep. Anyway it's about what I'm best at. But he said no. I'll tell you this, Thomas, he spoke the fairest I've ever heard him speak; he's not such a bad man in a pinch. He said the savages probably mean to use Captain Smith as a hostage and that if more of us got captured it would only make things worse. There are too few of us, he said, to risk losing anyone; our best chance is to keep together. He said Captain Smith wouldn't want us going into danger on his account. He explained it all, and he thanked me. But unless you want to go behind his back, I reckon ...'

Thomas listened in an agony of indecision. His first impulse was to say, 'We should do it anyway. The governor wants Captain Smith dead.' But then he had to admit that Ratcliffe's arguments, on the face of it, made sense. He wondered if John Smith had been mistaken from the beginning: had his reluctance to attack the Indians been only because of that girl, that girl for whom he had been ready to forget them all? And at the same time he heard John Smith himself saying: 'Keep your head down, Thomas, obey orders …'

'No, I reckon not,' he said to Ben.

It was too much for him. All he could do now was play his part, one soldier among many, on their way to destroy the pieces of a puzzle they could not solve. He sighed, and stood up to go to collect his powder and shot.

*****

For some minutes after Pocahontas left, John Smith had no conscious thoughts but was possessed by the sight and touch of her, and ached with longing for her. While she was there, he could draw strength from the well of her love; he could take comfort from the continuance of her life. But gradually her presence faded, and his mind turned to other concerns. There was a long night ahead.

He knew he should try to settle his thoughts and get ready for whatever the morning might bring, but his mind sped feverishly along a dozen tracks of thought and feeling, unable to bring any of them to a conclusion. He could not stop his spirits from rising at the hope of escape, only to fall yet lower every time he showed himself how ill-founded that hope was.

Within a few minutes he had satisfied himself that he could not do it alone. The strips of hide round his wrists were thick, strong and slippery, and were tied so tightly that his fingers were already numb. There was no sharp object to hand. The post was smooth, and so firmly set that he could not rock it, even by straining his shoulders against it as hard as he could. They didn't do things by halves, these Indians. Even more discouraging, he found, the guards came in at least three or four times in an hour to make sure that he was still well secured.

But he might have help. Sending Thomas away had been the prudent thing to do, he reasoned, as well as the right one. The boy would have got back to camp and raised the alarm; maybe a rescue party was already on its way… But even if one was, what chance had they? How would they overcome these watchful guards? There were some good soldiers in that crew, but none of them had the quality of recklessness without which no such attempt could succeed. No one but himself. How nicely I could have planned my rescue, he thought wryly. But those fellows? No. If they try anything it'll be an all-out attack, and what are the chances I'll be alive at the end of it?

And of course there's Ratcliffe. He'll be delighted to get rid of me, but he won't want to put it that way to the others. Isn't it plain what he'll do? He'll encourage them to attack, but make sure the Indians have time to kill me first. Then the men'll massacre the Indians to his heart's content. The man's a genius, in his way. But he's a fool, too. He thinks the Indians are a rabble that won't stand and fight … Just as John thought this he saw the wall in front of him grow lighter as a fire somewhere outside flared up. Loud voices rang out and an unmistakably warlike drumming began. The battle was already preparing. These men would fight in a killing trance to the bitter end, but they had no idea of the terrible force of cannon and massed muskets, they did not know how many would die; both sides wanted this war, but only he _knew _… and no one would listen to him.

He remembered the time he had bluffed his way out of a Hungarian camp where his case had been no more promising than it was now: how he had enjoyed making a fool of the guards. With these Indians, he simply could not bring himself to try it. He already felt too much ashamed: they had just cause against him. He did not deserve to escape, yet his death would solve nothing. Had he imagined, after Thomas killed that young man, that letting himself be caught and killed was the best he could do towards peace? That it would somehow settle scores and that the rest of them could start over again? Yes, in some part of him he must have thought that, to have acted as he had. The truth was just the opposite. He had only made things worse.

The two guards from the door came in. One crouched behind John and carefully checked that the straps were still tight, while the other stood looking down at him.

John gazed into his face. 'I have to talk to your chief,' he said in a mixture of English and the native language, as calmly and persuasively as he could.

The young man started backwards with the look of someone who has trodden on a snake. John almost pitied him.

'We have to stop this battle,' John said. 'I mean you no harm. Please, fetch the chief.'

The man behind him got up and said something in a harsh voice. As John started to speak again, he leaned over and hit him squarely across the face.

By God, they were as panicky as cows. (Yes, and who had made them so?) John blinked and waited a few moments for the pain to subside, then tried again. 'I am not your enemy. Please let me speak to the chief.'

The man did not hit him again, as he half expected him to; instead, the two conferred in mutters and then left the hut. John turned as best he could to watch the entrance, twisting his lip to try to stop blood running into his mouth. For a few minutes he was hopeful, but nothing further happened. The next time people came to look him over, it was two different guards. He spoke to them as he had spoken to the first two, but they did not respond in any way. Clearly, new orders had been given: the foreigner will try to talk you round, do not answer him. He spoke to them the next few times they came in, and now and then shouted to them outside the hut, but with no response. At the end of an hour, the drumming outside had become so loud he doubted if his shouts could be heard. His helplessness suffocated him, and he yanked with all his strength against the thongs round his wrists, shouting inarticulately. It did no good.

What do you expect, John Smith? he then told himself. Why should they listen to you? You were going to have a fine time, weren't you: to rob them, cheat them, and maybe if you were a decent man leave them the crumbs, although you knew full well that most of the company wouldn't even want to do that. Yes, Ratcliffe had the idea. _More honest, as well as sparing ill-will and suffering, if we defeat them as quickly and completely as possible… make no distinction of age or sex … _So now they're going to fight us, and the strongest will win. As always. So much for my finicking, thinking I could make it better. I couldn't even decide what I wanted and stick to it. I could neither do the task I was set to, nor turn traitor with a will: I fell between two stools, and no wonder I am sitting here waiting to die. At sunrise. Six, seven hours…

Suddenly a wave of terror attacked him. It appeared that until this moment he had not sensed his death as a reality, although he thought he had. So many times he had risked his life, knowing that death would come at some moment, part of life as he had lived it: dozens of times, but this was different.

The wave passed and he tried to repeat to himself the sensations it had contained, to confront them rationally and of his own volition. He found it impossible. His mind evaded them, shrank away and escaped down other trains of thought, grateful for the respite. At different times he found himself thinking about vague promises he had made and never kept, to see friends or make inquiries, up to ten years before; or going over the scenes he had had with Ratcliffe since the voyage began and wondering what more he could have done to avoid being so thoroughly outmanoeuvred. But his thoughts circled more and more weakly and ineffectually, crippled by his awareness of what he was not facing and what had to come – until the dull misery was such that he thought frank terror would be preferable – but that only until the next wave of it came.

There was no escape: the futility and helplessness of his end worked through and poisoned every moment he had left. He felt that his whole accustomed self was as fragile as a child's castle in the sand. As time went on each successive wave of terror blurred it, and each ensuing period of vacancy silted it, until he felt that by morning there would be nothing left. He feared this almost as much as he feared death itself. Why? he asked himself. Why care? You failed and you are going to die anyway. If you lose your pride, your knowledge of what you are, or once were, of what consequence is that to anyone except yourself? And that is a self which is not going to exist any longer: therefore, of no consequence at all. And yet, he kept trying to raise the battlements of the sandcastle again. To hope to prepare for death was far too ambitious. He was merely trying to keep some semblance of himself alive until the time of death arrived.

At intervals, between and even during other conscious thoughts, he mechanically repeated to himself certain religious phrases. They brought him a vague comfort, but he lacked the nerve, or the practice, or perhaps the humility, really to beg for God's help, considering how he had always neglected Him. Now was not the time to start. He would have to die as he had lived: alone.

Every muscle in him felt unbearably restless. At least at home condemned men get the chance to walk up and down, he thought. I am sick to death of propping up this post. For the twentieth time, he turned his attention away from the stabbing cramps in his arms and the heavy ache across his shoulders. Don't let it get to you, Smith, he told himself. It's war; these things happen; don't take it personally. But there was no comfort to turn his mind to instead. He badly wanted to lean forward and bury his head in his hands. Instead he tilted it back, stifling a cry of desperation.

It was past midnight, the moonlight had moved far round, and outside, the drumming and chanting had increased in volume to a mesmeric wall of noise, joined by cries sliding wildly in pitch like the feet of a man about to hurtle down a cliff. They made the hair rise on his neck. He told himself that the men were preparing for battle and that this performance had little to do with him. Yet the utterly alien sound made him feel more naked and alone than he had ever thought possible. And the flinty eyes that stared in at him from time to time, from painted faces, while he tried to keep some kind of countenance, were further than ever from seeing him as a fellow man. He was prey. The voices and the eyes were those of starved hunting creatures in the dark. In a few hours they would break their fast: on him.

If I even knew how they are going to do it, he wished, sighing deeply as he tried to get enough air to last through the waves of terror. An ugly picture from the past, which he had tried to forget, came back to him vividly: a sailor who had fallen overboard, whom they had been unable to save, breaking the surface of the waves with screaming sea-birds flocking round his head, their beaks tearing at his eyes. Yet those were animals. Their cruelty could not exceed their need for life ... He was in the hands of humans.

Then just as it seemed his spirit would sink altogether under the weight of horror, it inexplicably began to right itself, as a boat can sometimes come head to wind without any steering. Louder than the drumming, the sound of the waterfall came into his memory, the glitter of the water on the stones, and the eyes of Pocahontas, as fierce with love for all things as those cries outside were with hunger. He remembered the insects that flew into the spray, and the age-old columns of the trees, and how she had held out her arms like spokes of the wheel that joined them. If she was right, those spirits must all have a thousand memories of suffering and dying, and still they danced in the ring of love … What was life but a waterfall where everyone must be dashed to pieces on the rocks? But on the way was the rainbow, the dizzying speed, the eternal stillness. He and Pocahontas had taken the leap together, hand in hand. What more could anyone ask?

As he thought this, even the post behind him that gave him no ease seemed to touch him with the living strength of the willow tree, and it came to him that his own God had died, too, on the tree of life. No rescue had come, no assurance, no comfort, so he could expect none. But he was not alone.

For a few moments he held the balance. Then terror came back and he lost it. But something remained. It was as if he knew the way slightly better: a small part of him was reconciled to what had to come, and yet understood that his human spirit would still have to flail and struggle against its end. So time passed for him until shortly before dawn, when pain began to blur everything else, and at last all he could think about was the effort to stay silent. Even so, however weary he grew of the night, he was unable to wish it any shorter. He wanted life.

*****

In the darkness Pocahontas clambered onto the stump of the willow. The gnarled, dry branches, the whispering strands of leaves, poured comfort into her. She knew at once that the tree was listening and watchful. It seemed to enfold her in its hard, millennial strength. She knelt down and shed tears for the first time that night.

'There, child,' whispered Grandmother Willow, 'I saw it all. What came after?'

She spoke up, her voice cold and hollow with despair as she named the worst. 'They're going to kill him at sunrise.'

At once, with certainty, Grandmother Willow said what Pocahontas had feared, and known, she would say.

'You must stop them.'

'I can't,' wailed Pocahontas. It was too much to ask. How could her frail self stop that dreadful landslide that had begun when Kocoum surprised them, and had been gathering force ever since, with rolling boulders that would crush anyone in their way? Especially herself, already crippled with the guilt of having started it? Why me? her soul cried out helplessly.

'Child, remember your dream,' urged the voice.

'I was wrong, Grandmother Willow. I followed the wrong path,' cried Pocahontas. She was accusing herself in appearance, but really accusing her guide, who had pointed her clearly down that path. She knew it and did not care. It was Grandmother Willow who had led her into this pit. Now let her help her out, or at least know what she had done. But moments passed in silence and she could feel that the spirit was angry. She could not afford to lose the only comfort she had. She offered by way of apology, in a piteous whisper, 'I feel so lost.'

Still the willow tree said nothing. Pocahontas could see the branches quite clearly, and hear the wind soughing in them, without being aware that it was the light and the wind of dawn. She was intent on waiting for some sign. Nothing happened. Ordinary life went on around her. One or two birds rustled and cheeped. Her raccoon, whom she had not seen for two or three days, had been sitting on the river bank nearby. Now he got up, climbed to his hole in the hollow part of the trunk and began scratching around, scraping out the rubbish and the results of his thieving that had collected there. I wish I were a dumb beast, thought Pocahontas. Not to have to do, or know what I have done.

She sat hunched with her arms clasped round her knees. Small pieces of debris struck against the tree-bark and leaves near her and bounced off. Then something larger fell with a curious hard ring against the tree trunk. She had heard that sound only once before in her life. Quicker than thought, she put out her hand and caught the object that might otherwise have fallen in the river.

'The compass!' she said in surprise.

Had the raccoon carried it all the way down here from past the waterfall? The sight of the compass hurt, because it belonged to _him_. Nevertheless she looked at it more closely and wonder grew in her. She could not tell what it was made of: something smooth and shining, with a pattern inside that you could not touch because it was covered with something hard but clear. The pattern was of sharp points facing outwards in a circle, like the rays of the sun, in different colours, red and black and gold. It was a beautiful cunning thing, full of good magic. Had Kekata seen this, when he pronounced that the white men were ravenous wolves, with an emptiness within which their greed could never fill? She noticed after a moment that one of the points was not fixed, but trembled and moved. It was like a tiny black arrow. As she turned the compass in her hands it moved in the opposite direction so that it was always pointing the same way. As she turned faster, it spun to catch up.

'Spinning arrow,' she murmured.

She felt Grandmother Willow looking.

'It's the arrow from your dream.'

It was. She realised in a flash that this was what the dream-arrow had really looked like; when she had thought about the dream and told others of it, her mind had unthinkingly transformed the compass-arrow into something like a war arrow, because that was the closest thing to it she had ever seen in her waking life. Now dream and reality fitted over each other with the perfection of a humming-bird's beak slipping into a flower. And she heard his voice saying, with the weight of meaning that only thoughtless words can carry, 'It helps you find your way when you get lost.'

She felt certainty flowing back into her in a tide of strength.

'The dream was true!' she said exultantly. 'It _was _pointing to him!'

More than that, it was he. The clear face, the frail, searching point: they were his essence, his soul: she held it in her hands, a shining and precious thing. And was she going to let it be broken?

She stood up on the tree-stump and felt the dawn wind flurry around her. As before, the voice of the wind was speaking to her, impetuous, impatient, making much clear that had been needlessly hidden. Had not she and John Smith pledged each other to stop the battle? Had anything happened that was a reason to break that pledge? And who was best placed to keep it? The one who was bound or the one who was free? The one who was silenced or the one who had a voice to speak? Was he to have passed the dark hours believing that she had given up their promise and abandoned him to death so easily? What was she afraid of? At the worst, she could die too. The wind had blown away all those strange clouds. Strange clouds, indeed!

Her path was clear: everything in her pointed the same way. Whatever the odds against her, she must hazard them. Her heart soared.

She glanced up and saw a fiery glow in the eastern sky. 'Sunrise!' Joy and fear gripped her both at once.

'It's not too late, child!' said Grandmother Willow.

Pocahontas turned with the compass in her hands until the black arrow came to rest on a black needle-point and moved no more. She knew where to go. Only one thing mattered: to get there in time.

'You know your path: now follow it!' hissed the wind in the leaves behind her.

Pocahontas leaped off the stump and ran. She ran as she had never done before, with speed and perfection, dodging roots and branches, splashing through pools of water, leaping from rock to rock without breaking her stride. The red in the sky intensified until it seemed the colour of blood. The blood roared in her ears. Her shadow sprang out long beside her. To the pounding of her footsteps, her mind, tightened to its effort like a drawn bowstring, thrummed its prayer to the spirits:

'Eagle, help my feet to fly,

Mountain, help my heart be great ...'


	21. watch this space

**Interim Message**

**Apologies for not having another chapter ready to post yet: my reliable sub-editor, aka husband, has got a bit behind in his reading due to work commitments, but still wants to have input! Hopefully there'll be progress in the next day or two ...**

**Meanwhile, where are all my kind readers? There was a lot in that last chapter, John Smith facing his longest night and Pocahontas finally getting up her nerve to save him – and all I got was three one-line reviews!! Are you all too busy at work now that the Easter vacation is over? Or are you bored by extreme peril and only like kissing? (Joke.) Oh well, there's some of both in the next chapter if you can wait that long,**

**C**


	22. Chapter 22

**Thanks loads for all your reviews. Here it is, then, the big scene. I've kept the impossible coincidence of everyone being in the same place at the same time, just like Disney: who cares, it's great drama!**

CHAPTER 21

As the dawn light strengthened, the warriors gathered in the central space of the village. They had dedicated their bodies and their weapons to the spirits of war. Their faces were painted to inspire terror, their chests marked with the totems of their guiding spirits, to husband their courage and guard their hearts. The killing frenzy that they had practised in the darkness was laid aside with the cold new light. Now was the time of still, watchful readiness. The women and children were all gone. The men who belonged to the village had said formal goodbyes to their families the evening before. They were ready to march. But first there was the business of the evening to conclude, which also very properly looked forward to the day to come. The captured foreigner was to be killed: blood for blood, to ensure Kocoum's spirit would be assuaged and ready to help them in the battle; and a sacrifice to the gods, to call down their help too and sanctify this war unlike all other wars.

Chief Powhatan stood by the fading fire and weighed his war club in his hand. It seemed to him that the stone head was heavy with the stifled, burning anger that had grown within him ever since the foreigners had done their first harm to his people: the grief that he had not been allowed to reach old age and die seeing his kingdom secure; that the strangers had even come between him and his daughter; and the dark fear that even if the field were won today, it would not be the end of the story, that if these white men had come others would follow, and that in the end all that he knew would be swept away by their ugly, soulless power. He feared it and a cold finger on his heart told him it was true. Grasping the club he told himself that at least today he still had the strength to strike a blow for his people, and he prayed to the war-gods to guide his hand to strike hard and well, so that whatever came after no one could say that they gave themselves up lightly. He was ready.

'Bring out the prisoner,' he commanded.

In a little while three men led the prisoner out, with his arms bound and a rope around his neck, and pushed him into the file near the head, walking with the stiff awkward steps that were all he could manage in the fierce grip of his guards. They still fear him, thought Powhatan grimly, but not for much longer. When they see that he can bleed and die like other men, they will be heartened for the battle... He himself no longer doubted it. Then why did he still feel uneasy? Why was he reluctant to glance at the man's face? The face, white like bleached bone, scoured with pain and exhaustion, looked as if it might shatter at a touch, and yet was still and almost dreamy. It held none of the anger and defiance that prisoners of Powhatan's own race always took care to show until the end, calling on their own gods and mocking those of their captors. This man could not be a treacherous killer: in his heart Powhatan knew it very well. A spiritless coward? That did not fit either. But what on earth was he? Powhatan could not help seeing that, although the man could barely move a finger's breadth of his own choice, and although he had to keep throwing his head back or to the side to be able to breathe, he took the trouble to look up and eastward for several moments at the brightening sky. At that, Powhatan, who had never faltered when there had to be killing, felt pity and also a kind of awe for the complete aloneness of this man. What god could he call on, from beyond the endless sea towards which his eyes were turning? Why had he come to this country so far from his own, only to die? Do not weaken, Powhatan told himself sternly. Above all, today, your anger is needed, nothing else.

The long line of armed men wound slowly uphill, away from the houses and the river, between the rows of crops that grew on the slopes, the white man's boots sliding absurdly in the dark tilled earth among all the proudly planted bare feet. They went on upward under the cedars, where it was still almost dark from the unbroken clouds of foliage above. At last they came out of the trees onto a high plateau of heathery grass and scattered rocks. While they had been in the forest the sky had grown much brighter. The whole eastern quarter was red and the clouds on the horizon glowed where the sun was about to rise.

They halted at the extreme edge of the plateau. On the south side, in front of them, was a low cliff down into a gully, beyond which a steep slope led up to another expanse of rocky heath fringed by forest. On the left, the east side ended in a much higher cliff. At its feet, the whole of the misty forest and winding tidal waters of Powhatan's chiefdom stretched away to the ocean on the horizon, where the red fire of the sunrise flickered. The head of the procession stopped just where the low cliff turned the corner to the high one. The warriors coming behind passed by to line the cliff edge on each side. The shaman and a few others were chanting; most of the men stood silent and attentive. Those with the prisoner brought him forward to where one flat, grey, quartz-veined rock the size of a small table jutted out at the very turning point of the cliffs. They pulled him to his knees, then pitched him forward to land on his face on the rock. When they were sure that he would lie still, they stepped back a few paces to make room for Chief Powhatan. One of the chief's attendants ceremoniously handed him the club. The gold rim of the sun was just rising above the sea.

*****

In the end it had been much quicker and easier than John Smith had expected. He had underestimated the relief of having nothing demanded of him, and everything done for him. He was not obliged, any more, to persuade, to decide, to make anything happen; only to go where he was led, like an animal to slaughter, and apathy was a wonderful drug against fear. He grieved, vaguely, though, that he had never finished his overnight work, that he had not succeeded in grasping the reality of his death: only in pulses, as when he saw the weapon that was to kill him, in the hand of the man next to the chief. Instead of feeling relief at the sight, he felt dismay. Horrible as his worst imaginings had been, they had still allowed a measure of escape from the final, brutal fact. It was going to be quick. But that meant, too, there would be no time to accustom himself to dying, no buffer between full awareness and extinction. His failure to face the end would be the last thing he knew… The next moment his mind had strayed from his fear to notice some ordinary thing, a plant or rock beside the path, or the pattern of the clouds in the glowing sky. Strange to think that these would all outlive him. At times he wondered if his men – who, far in the past, had depended on him – would all die today as he would, or if they might escape. There were moments of peace, when the thought of Pocahontas and the rainbow on the waterfall visited him. But none of it was under his control: it was all in fragments, and it passed very quickly. When they reached the end of the march and he recognised the last place he would ever be, from which he would never move again, he felt the last wave tearing his walls away.

He sobbed as his face struck the rock, with pain and with the knowledge that it was over, that John Smith, who had been a good companion, was already as spilled and scattered as he would be in another minute when his brains were dashed on the stone.

_But I am not the one who matters. The rainbow. The stillness. Be there when I am not._

And now, for a time he could not measure, all was quiet and nothing happened. How long must he wait? Though he kept his face pressed to the rock, his eyes glanced sideways: he must know, or try to know, the exact moment ... He sensed, rather than saw, the club swing upward and hang poised.

Now.

He heard a voice screaming a single word, loud and long. He thought it must be his own and, in his last islet of consciousness, he was ashamed.

But the club had come down – he heard it drone in the air – and he was not dead. Something struck his head, but lightly, and a web of black hair fell past his eyes.

*****

She had flung herself forward like a diver so that her head lay on his and her arms reached down his back. She must have run a long way: he could feel her shuddering breathing all through his body. But she took only two breaths and then spoke clearly in a voice like the hiss of a drawn knife.

'If you kill him, you'll have to kill me too.'

John Smith wished she had not come. He was certain that he was going to die, that nothing she could do would make any difference; the torture had nearly been over and now he must endure more of it, agonising moments that seemed like drops of acid scalding away any last strength that he had. He felt impossibly distant from her – faint, already dead by all but a technicality. He scarcely cared what happened, if only it could be over.

He heard Powhatan's voice, charged and strained like that of a man trying to lift a load much too heavy for him.

'Daughter, stand back!'

This time Pocahontas cried back loudly, as instantly as the magnified echo of a shout in the mountains:

'_I won't_!' Then, more quietly, her voice breaking: 'I love him, Father.'

Suddenly John felt, as he had not done before, the comfort of her arms, the protective warmth of her head on his, calling him back into life. He did not want to feel it. Surely now they will drag her off, he thought. And then please let it be quick.

Pocahontas knew how near she was to death. She stared up into the face of her father, distorted with rage and disbelief, looking as if he did not know her. But she felt inexpressible relief that she had spoken the truth at last. Once the words were out in the open air, shame seemed to dissipate like vapour, and only love and pride remained. If he kills me now, so be it, she thought. He had checked the first stroke of his club in mid-air, but was now prepared to strike again. Yet still he hesitated.

Powhatan now understood everything that had happened. Black rage for a moment blotted out all else in his mind. His daughter had betrayed her people and was proclaiming her shame openly before all his warriors. She was dishonoured beyond recovery and so would he be unless he acted at once. 'Kill her!' cried the voices of battle-frenzy and pride in his heart. The voice of cunning, that had often stood him in good stead, murmured, 'No. Give it time. Take her away and kill him quickly and then we shall see. Perhaps something can be saved out of this.'

But a true chief has to listen to other voices, too. He can never give himself up entirely to rage or love, grief or happiness; whatever the burden, he has to hold the balance, be able to remember at any moment what his people need to forget. So Powhatan hesitated, and grew aware of what was going on around him.

His warriors were murmuring, stirring, fitting arrows to their bows and setting feet a pace forward all along the line. Across the gully the enemy had appeared. Pale men, in their clumsy dress with their deadly weapons, were strung out along the forest margin, irresolute but clearly preparing for battle: the huge man who was their chief was striding among them giving orders, bringing them forward. Battle would be joined at any moment. Powhatan had to act.

Pocahontas saw it too. Here and now, she and she alone had to prevent not only the death of her lover, but the battle that would destroy both peoples. She raised her head and cried in desperation:

'Look around you! This is where the path of fear has led us!' Then, burying her head passionately again in the fair hair beneath it, 'This is the path I choose. What will yours be?'

For the first time Powhatan realised how utterly fixed her purpose was; that if he tried to drag her away from this path she would leap back into it like an upright sapling that one bends down and releases – indeed, that she could do no other. He noticed the delicate shape of her head around her ear where the hair usually hung and had been tossed aside, and his heart gripped with anguish to think how close he was to destroying this. She was his daughter, who feared nothing and had never told a lie in her life, whose honour he would have trusted to the end of the world.

His warriors were looking to him for a sign of command. On the further slope, too, the white men were in line with their weapons at the ready. All waited for something to end the frozen moment, for slaughter to break out as they had all intended, or for something else ...

The sun was clear of the horizon and suddenly the red that had suffused the air seemed to fade, and things to take on the bright diverse colours of daylight. A gust of wind blew in from the sea, singing in the bowstrings and rustling in the grass. Powhatan closed his eyes, tilted his head a fraction, listening for the fainter voice of the spirit he had thought would delude him: the spirit that had turned his heart towards the man whom it was his task to kill, and that made him see the new, unheard-of honour in the course his daughter had chosen. To retreat to the known, or surrender to the unknown: the choice was his.

Pocahontas stared at her father, unable to halt, as the moments still passed, the keen surge of hope that rushed into her. John Smith, though he still lay unmoving, felt his heart hammering in his throat. He, too, had given way to hope. The calm and the horror of the certainty of death were swept away. He had never guessed how strong the desire to live was until now.

Powhatan opened his eyes and again grasped his club, but this time crossways with both hands above his head, in the gesture of a chief to whom all must listen, and raised his voice.

'A god has spoken through Pocahontas, or she could never be so bold,' he said. 'She asks for this man's life, and, for her fearlessness, I grant it. I, Powhatan, summoned you to war, but this sign calls us to peace. I offer peace to his countrymen, and may the gods guide them and us.'

He let fall the club, head downwards at his feet.

John felt himself begin to tremble all over, and in a moment he was drenched with sweat. He pulled himself uncertainly up onto his knees and looked at the world with half-seeing eyes. He was going to stay there; he was not going to die. He felt, of all things, foolish and angry, as if a cruel trick had been played on him: as if, after all that he had been through that night and morning, no one had taken it seriously except himself. But Pocahontas was kneeling opposite him with a smile breaking through the tears and anguish on her face. He saw only her, and knew that in truth he had not been alone: that she, too, had suffered, and that for the moment it was over.

The issue still hung in the balance. The warriors stared at one another: for what other purpose had they come here than to kill? Yet they all respected their chief to the utmost, and had come out ready to obey his command. And so, when Powhatan added:

'Release him!', a man immediately stepped forward and slid a knife-blade under the thongs round the prisoner's wrists, levering until they snapped. The white man, already on his knees, got to his feet, and so did the chief's daughter. They looked at one another: it was hard to say which of them was more spent, and they moved together rather to support one other than to embrace. The girl took the man's numbed hands between hers seemingly in disbelief, with the tentative fingers with which she might touch her newborn child, or a sacred object that she was unsure she was allowed to handle. The warriors looked on in equal disbelief. The sight was obscene: a condemned foreigner and their chief's daughter ... Yet it had been allowed, therefore, being so far beyond the accustomed, it became sacred. Their disbelief turned to wonder, and all lowered their weapons as they tried to come to terms with this unheard-of reality.

*****

The English saw their captain stand up unharmed and let his head fall on the shoulder of the girl who had saved him. They saw the long, shining line of arrow-points that had fenced the edge of the opposite cliff waver, dip and turn away. The golden morning light poured over everything: the compassionate girl looked like the Maiden Mother in the pictures some remembered seeing in their churches at home, the chief, in his feathered crown and robe, like an archangel, receiving saints into heaven. John Smith was accepted into this glowing world, they themselves were ordinary sinners hesitating in the shadows outside. Some of them had forgotten about battle completely and let their muskets sink to their sides when they heard Governor Ratcliffe's hoarse, excited call:

'Look – now's our chance, men!' He drew his sword. 'Fire!'

Ratcliffe had missed his moment. Every man hesitated, hoping that his neighbour would take a lead, then found that his neighbour hesitated as well. Men glanced uneasily at one another. Not a single one fired.

The governor repeated his order at full pitch. Still nothing happened; and what had been mere hesitancy could be felt hardening into obstinacy.

Thomas, in line a few places to the governor's left, reached a wordless understanding of what the night's events had been about. John Smith had been trying to stop the battle and had nearly died in the attempt. He, Thomas, had been used as a pawn against him. He would be a pawn no longer. If he was the only one who understood, then it was up to him to act. Feeling the blood rush to his head so that it almost blinded him, he stepped forward out of the line, lowered his gun, and said 'No.'

He waited, feeling the cool air all around him, wondering from which direction he would be shot. But instead another man stepped out to join him – Ben – and then three or four more. In a few moments the whole line was ragged and crooked, and voices murmured:

'They let him go!'

'They don't _want _to fight!'

From all around, stubborn eyes stared at Ratcliffe.

He glanced right and left with the look of a cornered boar, and then, with quick decision, snatched the musket of the man nearest him. 'Very well – I'll settle this myself!' he said between his teeth and put the gun to his shoulder.

*****

John Smith had just found himself able to stand on his own feet, and he suddenly began thinking again at unnatural speed, like a man in a fever. He might be alive but he was still on the edge of a cliff. It was necessary to do something, now that he was free to act. He must make some gesture to the chief, of gratitude and apology for himself and his men.

He glanced at Powhatan and then at once looked where Powhatan was looking, and so became the last person in the place to discover that the English were there. His eyes fixed instantly on Ratcliffe and the black eye of the musket aimed across the gully. In no time, as if the thought leaped straight to his mind from Ratcliffe's, he knew what the governor was about. He saw Chief Powhatan facing Ratcliffe broad-chested and uncomprehending; weighed the long range of the shot against what he knew of Ratcliffe's marksmanship; saw Pocahontas's victory disappearing in a storm of shot and blood, and knew that if he did not act at once then he and she might as well have saved their trouble from the beginning: it was double or quits. With all this in mind and in no time at all, he sprang in front of Powhatan without ceremony and thrust him out of the way. He never heard the report of the musket because by the time the sound had travelled to him the impact of the bullet had already tossed him aside in the air and thrown him down, and he knew that he had been unlucky this time; that the night's work had been practice for something after all.

'_No_!' screamed Thomas.

The settlers stared dumbfounded across to the cliff. One or two of them groaned or sobbed.

'He shot him!'

The line became a circle around Ratcliffe. He glanced about, suddenly afraid, his certainty falling away.

'He stepped right into it – it was his own fault!' he said, his voice becoming high-pitched with fear, with no authority left. The centre of the circle closed in a jostling mass:

'Smith was right!'

'We should never have listened to you!'

'Traitor!'

'Get the gun!'

Only a few men hung back. At least five were holding onto Ratcliffe and had disarmed him when Thomas shouldered his way to the front. He looked directly into Ratcliffe's face, which was thrust forward and screaming in outrage, 'I'll see you all hanged for this!'

Some huge force seemed to have taken possession of Thomas and be pushing him into action with a speed and strength not his own. He did not even think what to do. As it went through his mind that Ratcliffe was speaking the truth, that this was mutiny and he could indeed have them all hanged, he was already planting the barrel of his own musket on Ratcliffe's chest. As his mind's eye tried hopelessly to deny the sight of John Smith fallen on the cliff top, he was shouting to the other men: 'Get back! Everyone! Behind me! Get back behind me, get away from him!' He did not recognise his own voice and everyone obeyed him.

He thought of his mother weeping and his brothers ashamed to say his name. Then he thought of how it had amused Ratcliffe to order him to betray the man he loved best in the world, and how Ratcliffe himself had played with that man's life like a card up his sleeve, and what had now come of it.

He and the governor stood alone facing each other, the musket in Ratcliffe's ribs. 'Sir,' said Thomas thickly, 'do you remember you once told me to learn how to use this thing properly?'

The veins in Ratcliffe's forehead knotted with rage, but he could not speak.

'This is its proper use,' said Thomas, and shot him.

*****

Thomas looked down at Ratcliffe and, when he was sure that he was dead, laid the musket down carefully on the ground beside him. Then he moved two paces away, put his hands behind his head and shouted: 'I killed Governor Ratcliffe! You all saw it! I killed him, no one else laid a finger on him. Come and get me!' He was still caught up by the purpose which had flung him into action, and could see nothing beyond it, but his voice was now boyish, shrill and close to tears.

Several hands took his arms and shoulders, but instead of fitting irons on they were slapping and shaking him. 'Shut up, you soft ninny!' hissed Ben. 'No one saw anything! The governor had an accident with his gun! Keep quiet – do you want to be hanged?'

'And good for you, mate, whether or no,' came another voice from behind him.

'Yes!' grunted another. 'Bear up, boy, all it takes is a good lie!'

A small crowd stood protectively around Thomas. It was noticeable that it was made up of the rank and file of the settlers. The men in authority who were now coming up – the captain's mate, the master gunner, the surgeon – were stern and dubious.

After a slight hesitation the mate took command. 'Two of you – Brown and Gresham – stay with him,' he shouted. 'The rest of you get back in line. You look like a rabble. The Indians could clean you up in five minutes. Guns at the ready, but no one fire unless I give the order. Go!'

The men stood gaping for a moment, then began to scatter to their positions. The two who were left held Thomas's arms, and the mate looked him up and down.

'Well, you know what you've done,' he said grimly.

'Yes, sir,' said Thomas.

'You can expect to hang, but we'll talk about that later. For now we need someone to go and speak with those fellows over there.'

'But we've no …' broke in the gunner.

'Yes,' said the mate. 'No one knows who's in command until we know if Captain Smith's alive. That's one reason we need to go and talk to them. You take over here. I'm going, and so are you' (he glanced at the surgeon) 'and Thomas here.' He looked round at them all. 'Anyone got anything white?'

'They won't know what that means,' said the surgeon.

'No,' said the mate. 'Well, leave all your weapons.'

Thomas was utterly bewildered. He had thought that his part was over and he had nothing left to do but shut his eyes and wait to die. Now he was expected to act. It was difficult for him to remember anything that had happened more than five minutes before, but with an effort he did.

'Sir,' he said, 'I can't go over there. I killed one of the Indians last night when I went looking for Captain Smith. That's why they were going to kill him. The girl saw. She'll know me.'

'Ah,' said the mate. 'Well, but you must because you know more than any of us of what Captain Smith was about, and we haven't much choice now but to take his line. You can decide what it was. And if they recognise you and kill you, it'll save us the trouble and save your family the disgrace. So come along.'

Thomas looked at the mate's wooden face and felt steadied. There was the slightest twitch of sympathetic irony at the corner of his mouth.

The three men started across the gully together, walking slowly with their arms spread wide. The Indians still stood in battle order but with their weapons at rest, gazing, some at the approaching men and some at the small group on the turning point of the cliffs. The chief was standing looking down at John Smith, and the long-haired shaman was kneeling over him. The girl had his head in her lap, and as the settlers came closer they could see her face crumpled with weeping. When Thomas was near enough to see the cold sweat on John's face, his closed eyes, and the slow movement of his breathing, in and out, marking its own appalling retarded time, he wished he had Ratcliffe in front of him again, to make him suffer like this, and worse.

**Plot change, as you see! The solution to the Ratcliffe problem in the cartoon was a comedy solution; it would never have worked in real life, the so-and-so would have made things impossible for them all: he had to die! This isn't an ideal solution either, but it's the best I could think of.**


	23. Chapter 23

**This chapter contains my summing-up of the John/Thomas relationship as I see it.**

**Disclaimer: Disney**

CHAPTER 22

The days went by and there was peace of a sort. The settlers were now governed by an informal council consisting of the mate as president, Sir Richard Clovelly, Squire Hales, the chaplain, and three or four others. They had begun talking to the Indians on the very morning that the battle was avoided. The chief's daughter, Pocahontas, wanted to go with John Smith when the settlers got ready to carry him back to Jamestown, but her father, though he was very gentle with her, absolutely refused to let her go into the English camp. Thomas suggested that the English send an embassy to the Indian village the next day that would bring news of John Smith, and eventually, with great difficulty in the use of gestures and marks and conditions imposed by both sides, this was agreed upon. So the next day half a dozen Englishmen appeared, sat down in the longhouse opposite Powhatan, and began to explain why they were there.

Thomas's position in all this was ambiguous. He was supposed to be kept barred and guarded inside the fort in a wooden hut that the carpenters had quickly put up for the purpose, while the council decided what to do with him. But it became clear at once that he was indispensable in the negotiations with the Indians. Of all the English who were left only he was quick at language, imaginative enough to find ways of responding to the nuances of custom and courtesy in the Indians' behaviour, and young and humble enough to be able to take on the role of interpreter and prompter without compromising his position. Also, he at once found an affinity with the chief's daughter, whose position among her own people and solitary ability to speak some of both languages made her part in the parleying even more crucial. So any attempt to bring the full force of the law to bear on Thomas was undermined from the start, as some of the council complained during the meeting at which they tried to decide his fate.

'You have made it almost impossible for us to hang him here,' complained Hales to Dawkins, after they had already wrangled for an hour or more. 'The men really would mutiny. At best, there would be no good feeling left. If it was going to be done it should have been done at once, while they were still prepared for battle. Now we only have the choice between sending him back to England and letting him off – and God knows what will happen to our settlement if we begin by letting an act of murder and sedition like this go unpunished.'

'But if we send him back there'll be no end to it,' said the mate. 'Half of us will have to go too as witnesses, and the dirt will spread so wide that they'll end up recalling the whole expedition. We have the right to deal with this ourselves and we must.'

'How, then?'

'Like this,' said the mate. 'We court-martial him. We find him guilty of murder. We find grounds for clemency and let him go free. And we send a good simple lie back home. I have to take the ship back to England, to report and fetch fresh supplies – and now to ask for a new governor. We'll say that Sir John was leading his forces into battle when he stumbled and fell on his musket, which exploded and killed him. Haven't we all known it to happen? No one can possibly doubt it.'

'I don't see why I should be party to a lie like that,' muttered one of the landowners' agents.

'You may have to be,' said the mate. 'Because otherwise you'll risk being accused of being party to the mutiny. If the case does get back to England, where do you think it'll stop? A good half of the men went for Ratcliffe. At least a dozen must have laid hands on him. I don't recall any of us rushing forward, or shouting orders, or trying very hard to stop them. If we do tell the truth, there's a very good chance we'll all go down together.'

This gave even Thomas's strictest accusers pause.

'It'll be the end of the Virginia Company,' added the mate, 'probably for years, and for all of us here.'

'It might be for the best,' murmured the chaplain and one or two men nodded in agreement, but most emphatically shook their heads. The merchants and landowners had sunk too much into the venture to contemplate abandoning it.

'And I'll tell you what else,' the mate went on, more defiantly, 'Thomas did us all a favour. Let me remind you. Governor Ratcliffe put all our lives at hazard, needlessly as it turned out, because the Indians were ready to make peace. And he shot Captain Smith.'

'By accident,' objected Hales. 'Smith needn't have …'

'He thought he needed to and who are we to argue?' broke in the mate. 'It was what gained us the Indians' goodwill. John should have a say here, too, if he wasn't too sick – how is he?'

'Not in his right mind yet,' said the surgeon. 'But that's to be expected. If the wound doesn't fester he may live. But he won't be fit to talk for a good while yet.'

'It puts a duty on us to try to do as he wished,' the mate went on. 'He wanted peace and Thomas has let us have it. It would be poor thanks to hang him.'

No one much liked admitting this, but when a vote was taken there was a majority of seven to three in favour of sparing Thomas's life.

'This colony is not what my master expected,' grumbled the agent who had spoken before, as the council got up from the rough table. 'No gold, no mining, murderers let off scot free and all action taken by permission of the savages. When the new governor comes, are we going to go on currying favour with them?'

'I don't know,' said the mate curtly. 'But if I have any say in the matter, we'll go on working with them. They are men of more honour than some I could mention.'

*****

The second day that John Smith was free of fever and had slept peacefully for a while, he became aware that the surgeon was talking, and began to pay attention.

'I hadn't expected it,' he heard. 'That girl of yours brought a draught, willow bark or some such: I was ready to try anything, and it really seems to reduce the fever. I must ask for some more.'

'Pocahontas!' said John and moved his head involuntarily, then closed his eyes, dizzy.

'There, it's all right. Rest. I'm sorry. She's not here now, but she will come. It was she who kept you alive, I think.'

So he hadn't been dreaming. But it had seemed so unreal. Pocahontas, in Governor Ratcliffe's tent … He had kept trying to warn her that she must leave, that she would die if she stayed, but she had only hushed him gently, and the next moment he had clung to her with hands that still wouldn't grip properly, afraid of losing his hold on the only thing in the world that was not pain. But now … the pain was bearable and the world had become solid around him: the wool hangings, the polished table, the ewer and the fine cups.

'Why am I in here, anyway?' he asked, huskily. 'What's happened to the governor?'

The surgeon judged it safe to tell him. 'He's dead,' he said.

John nodded once, unsurprised. 'How did he die?'

'Thomas shot him. Right after the governor shot you.'

'Thomas,' repeated John loudly and winced sharply. 'Oh no. The poor boy ...' After a moment he collected himself and asked the surgeon in a low voice, 'Did they hang him?'

'No,' answered the surgeon with pursed lips. 'Mate Dawkins and the rest decided to let him off. But he's talking about taking the ship to England anyway when the mate sails, and giving himself up.' After a little while he added, 'There's a lot of good in that boy. No one knows what got into him.'

John lay and tried to think.

'Christopher's sailing for England?'

'Yes, he's planning to.'

'So … we're staying? The Indians made peace?'

'Yes, for the time being.'

John let out a long breath. He closed his eyes and lay still for a few minutes, until he heard the surgeon start to move away, clearly thinking that he had gone back to sleep. Then he stirred himself hastily. 'I need to talk to Thomas,' he said.

'Impossible,' said the surgeon. 'You won't be strong enough to talk to anyone for days. This is enough now, in fact. You need to take this draught, lie back and rest.'

'Get Thomas to come here,' said John, 'now. Do I still give orders around here, or not?' He gave a sketchy smile. 'How do I know I'm ever going to feel better than this? Come on, do it.'

The surgeon sighed, shrugged, and called for Wiggins –who had grieved theatrically at the death of his master, no one could tell with how much sincerity – to go and fetch Thomas.

'Come in, man,' said John, without moving, when he saw him in the entrance. 'It's good to see you again. Come and sit down here.' He reached a hand sideways and took Thomas's as he sat down by the bed. The first thing Thomas noticed was that John Smith had called him 'man'. Immediately afterwards he felt shock. The words and the handclasp were like the ghost of the old John Smith, still lingering around a changed man – gaunt and old after only a week, with even a bloom of grey over the fair hair. Thomas sweated with his hatred of Ratcliffe yet again, but after a moment felt only misery.

Aware of his feelings, John went on talking, going straight to the point. 'What's this I hear about you wanting to go back to England and give yourself up?'

Thomas gaped at him. 'You know what I did?' he said faintly.

'Yes, Thomas,' said John, carefully and deliberately, looking straight ahead of him, 'and I'm sorry. It was my fault for letting things get to that point between Ratcliffe and me. I handled it badly. I must try to make amends to you.'

'No,' said Thomas fiercely. 'It was up to me what I did, and I'm not sorry. If I could kill him again I would.'

'But, Thomas – don't you see?' John spoke faintly, closing his eyes as if to try to remember what had really happened. 'Ratcliffe wasn't such a bad man, at least not at first. He had substance, he was no fool … something about me made him worse. He had to be stopped, but he shouldn't have had to die, and you shouldn't have had to kill him – not you. It was my work you were doing.' John paused, breathed, then went laboriously on. 'Work I should have done myself – I should have been the one to get my hands dirty, not you. Ratcliffe and I both used you to attack each other… because I let him see I cared for you … it was stupid, wickedly stupid. You should blame me – you would be right to.'

Thomas stared at him and then said gently in a tone that John had never heard him use before:

'Captain Smith, you've done enough. Look at all that you've done. Don't you think I could choose for myself, whether to do your work or his? He had a choice, too. He didn't have to send me after you that night…'

'Oh,' said John, half smiling, 'so that was him? I thought it was your own idea.'

'No. He wanted you dead. I was too late, in the end, but I had to stop him.'

John looked at him for a long time.

'But if you can't stand it, Thomas – if you think you must go and give yourself up because the burden is too much for you – the blame is mine and you must lay it on me.'

Thomas was silent for a minute, and then tears started in his eyes. 'You've already made it less by saying that,' he said with difficulty. 'But yes. I'm not sure that I can live with it.'

'Why not?' asked John, shifting his grip from Thomas's hand to his arm. 'Tell me.'

'Don't you see?' said Thomas desperately. 'My family are waiting to hear from me. How can I go on lying to them – pretending everything's all right – but how can I tell them I'm a murderer? And the men don't trust me any more. I can see them looking after me. Someone will give me away, or kill me for some other reason. They may say they understand what I did, but really they think I'm a mad dog. I'd rather go back and get it over. Or even just go back to live – somewhere else where no one knows.'

'I see,' said John. 'Perhaps you must. But if you really made your own choice to do my work – there's something more that I'd like to ask you to do.'

'What, Captain Smith? I'll do it.'

John nerved himself. 'The thing is, I need you to stay, because I'm going to have to go back with Mate Dawkins.'

'You?'

'Yes,' said John. 'When the ship gets back, it will have to be reported that Governor Ratcliffe is dead, and the King will appoint a new man to come and take charge. Everything depends on whom they send. Someone like Ratcliffe, or someone who will be prepared to treat the Indians well. I'll have to get a word in. I've a favour or two to call in at court, and I think I've learned something about tact on this trip. Christopher can't do it. It will have to be me.'

'You're not staying – for Pocahontas?'

'If a governor comes with orders to drive the Indians out, what good can I do her here? Especially like this. The surgeon says…' he faltered, was silent for a minute and then went on angrily and mechanically, 'The surgeon says I may never walk again, and at the best I'll always have to use a stick and it'll be weeks before I'm on my feet.' He turned his face towards Thomas with a stiff-mouthed grin. 'I heard him say so to Christopher yesterday; he thought I couldn't hear, but I did. This is no place for cripples, nor will be for a long time. England will be better. And – no, be quiet. Listen a minute. I need you to stay – because you're the only one here to whom it means anything to play fair with the Indians. You can talk to them, you can understand them. You have to, Thomas. And look after _her_. Pocahontas. Please.'

'But, Captain Smith …'

'Don't call me Captain Smith any more. John.'

'But, John, I won't have any say in anything. I'm only ...'

'Oh, yes, you will. But I was coming to that. You said ... let me think.'

Thomas shifted slightly on the edge of the bed, but sat silent.

John closed his eyes for a while, then opened them again. 'The surgeon said no one knows what got into you. I dare say you don't know either.'

'No, I don't,' said Thomas.

'You felt as if you weren't yourself – as if someone else was taking command of you, before you could stop it.'

'How did you know?'

'There has to be a first time for all of us.'

'You mean it's happened to you, too?'

'I was just about your age… yes, I killed somebody, not in battle. I had reason, but the murdering rage it takes to do it: I thought I couldn't live with it, afterwards.'

There was a pause.

'But you did,' said Thomas.

'Yes, and so can you.'

'But I'm not … I still don't know how I can have done it. Was it the devil?'

'No, Thomas, it was you.'

'What?'

'It was a part of you that you're going to have to get to know better. It's no good hoping it'll never come back. You said the men will think you're a mad dog. That's it, right enough. A mad dog – the thing about him is, he doesn't know what he's doing. You have to know what you're doing. You have to own this thing or it'll follow you around like a black dog wherever you go and drive you mad, sure enough.'

'I know! That's why I wanted to own to it, give myself up …'

'No, Thomas, no. That's like admitting that it's stronger than you are, and it doesn't have to be ...'

He suddenly stiffened, stretched his head right back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Thomas saw that his face was as white as paper, and stood up in shock.

'I've overdone you. I'm sorry. I'll get the surgeon …' he said wretchedly.

John took a deep breath. 'No,' he said through clenched teeth, 'don't go.' Thomas hesitated and sat down again. For a minute or two he was sure that John was going to faint, but John kept his eyes shut and went on breathing deeply and evenly, and eventually opened them again. He glanced at Thomas. 'Please – can you get me a drink?' he whispered. 'There's a cup over there.'

Cursing himself for not having thought of it, Thomas hurried to do as he was asked. He put his arm round John's shoulders and raised him a little, as gently as he could, feeling the exhausted dead weight on his arm, thinking he would suffocate with grief and love.

After a few sips, John gasped and moved his head from the cup. 'Thanks. Sorry. All right, now we can carry on,' he said tonelessly but very deliberately, like a man addressing a meeting in the next room.

Thomas simply waited.

'You know where he is now, Thomas,' John said. 'That hound, devil, whatever he is. Don't let him slink after you. Train him. He's not afraid of anything, remember. You weren't afraid to be shot or hanged, so don't be afraid of your own anger. Use it, just a little, when they won't listen to what you say. When they propose to cheat, to bully, to go back on their word – use it then. They need you. Don't be too dutiful. It's worked for me – fairly well, on the whole.'

Thomas was too amazed to say anything.

'Yes – think about it. You'll understand. Killing Ratcliffe was a terrible thing to do. Don't try to live it down, live up to it. And make up for it. I hope you never have to do anything quite like it again ...'

'So do I.'

'And thank you for saving my skin the night before, too, in the woods.'

'I wish it hadn't happened. I thought I'd done for you, all that night.'

'So did I, but Pocahontas saved us … I suppose you'd better go now. Thanks for coming, Thomas ... and if after thinking it over you still decide to go home, well, it's up to you. I'll see you anyway before we sail.'

'I wish you were staying,' said Thomas, just holding back his tears.

'So do I, man, but what's the use? Be off now.'

Thomas stood up. His feelings were in turmoil, but out of them rose a conviction that he would be able to do what John had asked. His bitterness was gone. He remembered how John had held on to him in the water and saved him from drowning. Against all the odds, he had now done it again.

'Goodbye, John,' he said, and bent over and kissed him.

John ran a hand over his hair. 'See you.'

He went on lying still while Thomas went out, not looking after him. For a few minutes everything in front of his eyes was black and moved up and down, nausea gripped him, and he was afraid that the grim dreams of his fever were going to start again. But then things settled down and he went exhaustedly to sleep. That was one job done, even if the next one was going to be still harder.


	24. Chapter 24

**The final episode. Disclaimer: as usual.**

CHAPTER 23

In the days after Pocahontas stopped the battle, she found she was changing so fast that she could barely recognise herself. Although everything in her cried out to be beside John Smith, she did not go to the white men's camp for some days; she acknowledged her father's and her people's overwhelming concern for her safety. They all needed her. She saw the looks that followed her when she came away from sitting in the longhouse with the men, from using words in the strange language, looking from one man to another, guessing, fitting, smoothing, prompting. The villagers no longer thought of her as an ordinary woman but as a special being, a female shaman, able to step into the souls of these creatures from beyond the great waters. No one, not even Nijlon, would speak to her without shyness and ceremony. She was the one who had done the unheard-of thing: gone to the men's sacred stone when a sacrifice was ordained, pleaded for the victim and gained his life – and it had clearly been a divine act, for as soon as the victim was spared had he not freely laid down his life for Chief Powhatan, who would otherwise be dead? They did not think of John Smith in the same way as the other white men. He must be a spirit that had taken on some exceptional form; he had gone to his death with such strange quietness, and on being struck down had changed everything. The white men themselves had killed the chief wolf among them and were now milder: perhaps even human. Everyone was, tentatively, satisfied.

This, Pocahontas understood, was the way the villagers read things. She had patience with them. She knew that the white men were human, was beginning to discover the blend of strangeness and familiarity in their behaviour; and while the work was going on, it absorbed her as nothing else ever had. It was only when she came away that the deep desolation woke in her like a wolf howling at evening. Outwardly, she was the property of all her people, dark and high and unbending as a carved post. Inside she was bleeding, her strength drained by anxiety and wild anger at the cruelty of fate. She felt that without John Smith, with whom she had spoken three or four times in her life, everyone else among whom she had to live, even her father, was a stranger. He was no spirit-creature, he was her man. How could the world separate them like this when surely, if anyone had, they had earned the right to be together?

On the third day Powhatan stopped trying to prevent her and she went to Jamestown and stayed all day. It was the day the council were arguing about Thomas, so no one was much concerned with her. It was also John Smith's worst day. Pocahontas did not understand the anxious muttering of the surgeon, nor the use of any of the objects in the strange house where John lay: to make herself useful and not become distraught was the hardest work she had ever done. Her only comfort was that her being there sometimes seemed to be helping him, although she could not be certain that he recognised her. She walked home at dusk exhausted, unable to believe that only one day had passed and that she was still in the same world as before. After that she went for some part of every day, and saw him improve a little. But for some reason the first day he was able to speak coherently was the first day that she missed. She was overcome by a half-conscious shyness, and a wish to avoid the question, 'What now?'

It was soon answered. He sent for her by Thomas the next day. She spent the whole walk to the camp wondering what they would say to each other, and yet the question turned out to be unnecessary. Unlike Thomas, as soon as she came into the tent she saw only how much like his old self John Smith was, raising his head slightly from the pillow with the eager gaze that had been the first look of his she had seen. His hands were ready to take her arms, but she got past them and seized his head to kiss him. They stayed like that for minutes without speaking. The servant, who had been hovering, retired discreetly.

After a while, however, John became constrained and turned his head away. She realised that he wanted to talk and sat up in silence.

'Pocahontas,' he said, and then, after a long pause, 'Our ship is going back across the sea, and I have to go with it.'

Pocahontas sat frozen, and then, barely moving her lips, said softly, 'To your homeland.'

'No,' he said, 'this is my homeland now. Here. But I have to go because …'

How to explain? He felt so tired, and it was difficult now to find the few words of her language that he had learned. 'The high chief of all our people …' he began.

'The King,' said Pocahontas in English.

He turned his head to look more closely at her face. She said the word with a curious resonance, and a proud, practised air. She looked grave, _queenly_. How much she had already changed since the last time he had knowingly seen her! She probably knew a great deal more English than he knew of the Indian language now. She had probably spent longer talking with Thomas than she ever had with him. Suddenly, grief and bitterness rose in him and he found his eyes were swimming.

She embraced him, carefully, but with her fingers pressing fierce messages of love on his face and arms.

'Mine!' she said. 'My love … my husband … you are mine, always, always …'

'Always is long,' he said, 'and you are so young.'

'I will be old now,' she said, and began to cry with him, without speaking.

At last she dried her eyes and said, 'My father knows that you saved his life. He has taken your people under his protection and is giving them land and food. He wants to honour you.'

No one had spelled this out to John Smith yet. He felt a moment of deep, almost narcotic relief. They were all safe for the moment: Lon, Ben, Thomas, Sir Richard …

'I thank him,' he said. 'And if there was something I could offer for the life of that young man…'

'You have already paid it, he says, and more. And so I say.'

John Smith could not quite make that add up. But it was difficult to remember, from moment to moment, everything that had happened.

'And if you stayed, I think he would make you his kinsman.'

'My love. Nothing would take me away.' He was speaking in English now, confident that she would understand. 'But the King and his council will send a new governor to us here, and more men. They care nothing, and know nothing about your people. If I go back, I can tell them – I can help them choose a man who will keep the peace with you.'

She considered this, and eventually seemed to grasp it in all its angles. She looked into his face and clasped his hand like a grateful ally.

'You do right,' she said, using the English word. 'And I will stay here, and help your people and mine live together. But …'

He knew she meant, 'If only …', and they were silent together again.

After a minute he repeated to her what the surgeon had said about his chances. Pocahontas cried a little more, embraced him again, and then, after a while, said:

'But that is not why you are going, is it? Because you think I no longer want you – like this?'

'When we first met, I was whole,' he said in a stifled voice, not looking at her.

'That would not matter. I would be your hands and feet for my lifetime. If I went with you I could be.'

He looked at her with hope flaring up in his heart.

'My father says I must choose my own path,' she said.

He looked into her eyes still, and after a while she said, 'No. I'm needed here. But will someone take care of you?'

'Yes,' he said. 'My father left me his farm. There's a good man there, and some people who knew me when I was a boy. I will be all right. I may get there before the leaves fall this year.'

They had little more to say to each other. As they had to part, what was the good of trying to meet in more places than they had already met? If you have to leave the hills of your home you do not busily explore them and try to find beauties you have never noticed before; you simply stand and gaze, making yourself small to leave more room for them in your memory. That was what John Smith and Pocahontas did. They were together; they sat quiet for a timeless stretch of time and were almost happy. He wondered slightly at how many words he had had to use with Thomas, and how few this had taken.

Before she went away she did a few necessary things for him. He did not avoid her eyes, but she could see how hard his new state was for him to accept. She feared for him, but could not argue with him any further. If he only knew how gladly she would do all this, for a lifetime if need be. But there were other tasks to do.

*****

She went and asked Grandmother Willow the question she knew had no answer. 'Why did this have to be? I dreamed for months of the spinning arrow and I found my path and now a mountain has fallen on it, and on me. What am I to do?'

Grandmother Willow's voice seemed fainter than usual. 'My child, I cannot answer you. This is a sad and wicked world and things happen which have no meaning. I feel it weighing on me, too. I am old and I was hoping to warm my hands at your happiness for a while. But no ... The world is changing. I do not know how much longer I shall be a part of it.'

Pocahontas shivered to her depths. Was even this support to be withdrawn from her? At the thought of losing Grandmother Willow, she felt such loneliness she thought she could not bear it, but after a moment a new, hopeless strength. Let this come, too. She would stay alone like a dark carved pillar, charred inside, but immovable. Though her living tree might be cut down, it could still be a support for her people.

'Kekata, too,' she said at random. 'He is sick and will not leave his house. He says he has lost his ear for the spirits. He refused to hear what they were saying to him, that night they were getting ready for war, and now they will no longer speak. Is nothing going to be the same as it was?'

'Nothing,' said Grandmother Willow, very faintly. 'But with us or without us, life goes on, my Pocahontas.'

*****

So now there was only the parting to wait for. Christopher Dawkins was sailing back with the full-time crew, leaving Sir Richard Clovelly as acting governor, and taking with him John Smith and also Wiggins, who was going to look after John on the voyage. John did not object to him; he was impersonal and efficient and, at times, good company.

Thomas finished his letter to his family and ended with a plea to them to do anything they could to help John Smith when he reached England. It got around the settlers that he had done so and for the next few days he and anyone else who could write was kept busy writing similar recommendations from the others to their families and better-off friends. When John Smith found out, he was humiliated but touched. He could not afford to be too proud.

He found that he could not worry about the future, however. Nothing was hurting him very much at this time. His body had decided that it was going to survive, and was using all the strength it had to that end, leaving none to spare for painful feelings. It was pleasant to lie in the ordinary world, simply feeling himself rooted in place and time instead of being hurled around in the frightening distances of fever; to drowse and feel no horrifying pain, only ordinary pain that he could play games against and ignore for good stretches of time. Every day he felt a little stronger, and he determined to prove the surgeon wrong: the man didn't know how resilient a soldier could be, John told himself. By the time the ship reached England, he would be walking the length of the deck, with help or without. He even felt amusement at the thought of himself hobbling into the King's presence, an old soldier wounded on royal service, and cunningly playing on the sympathy he got to make sure the right governor was picked for Virginia. Oh, he wouldn't make the same mistakes he had made with Ratcliffe; butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He knew it would be harder than that, might be very hard, but he did not feel it yet. He would worry about it when the time came.

The ship was to sail on a high tide, early in the morning. She had been towed out into the fairway, fully loaded and ready, when John Smith was carried down to the river bank. The sailors wanted to get him on board, afraid of losing the tide, but he made them wait because he knew that Pocahontas would come to say good-bye. In fact, not only she, but the chief and a good number of the villagers stepped from the misty edge of the trees, coming so silently that the men had no warning until they appeared. The sailors stood tensely and one or two of them moved their hands to their weapons, but the Indians did not come close. Instead they stopped at a short distance and set down large woven baskets of food: corn, dried meat, and fruit. Pocahontas stepped forward alone.

The English watched the brown, bare-legged girl walk slowly, her head high and her face still, to where John Smith lay on his stretcher, and one by one they all uncovered their heads.

Pocahontas had said goodbye to him in private the day before. Now, she said very little, but only knelt beside him and clasped his hand.

'I will protect your people as if they were my own,' she said.

'And I yours,' he answered, gripping her hand.

There was a stir and some of the English bowed, nudging others to do the same. Chief Powhatan was coming forward, everyone making way for him.

'You will always be welcome among us. Thank you, my brother,' he said to John Smith. He undid the clasp of his chief's mantle, softly cured deerskin reaching to the ground, stitched with figures of animal spirits and wise men, and laid it over John Smith.

Pocahontas had helped John prepare a short speech in return, in the Tenakomakah language. 'You do me more honour than I can repay, and I thank you in the name of my people.' He said the words very carefully, closing his eyes for a moment to concentrate; he meant them. Powhatan had drawn largely on his credit as chief, for John Smith's sake. He had taken the English under his guardianship in relations with the tribe so as to make himself personally responsible for the compensation to Namontack and his kin. He had declared that the land the settlers occupied was theirs through the duty of hospitality, and that any question of payment or rent for it would be put off until it became clearer what the white men had to offer and what it was proper for the Indians to accept. He had now led the way in sharing food with them as it should be shared with guests. He would not have gone half as far had he not owed John Smith his life, and wished to show him and Pocahontas that he countenanced the love that they had shared. He could thank John by showing friendship to his people. He could do nothing for John himself, except this.

But Pocahontas, though deeply touched and satisfied, wished he had found some other thing to do. The mantle was spread over John Smith like the mantle of a dead chief when his body is carried away to the house of burial. It seemed to be saying that his life was past; it took him a step away from her, already, although his men still waited to lift him, hiding their impatience as best they could.

It was the last moment and still they could find no words to say, but only stared into each other's eyes until Pocahontas was nearly giddy with it and lowered her face onto his shoulder.

'Don't cry,' he said. 'I may come back. When the new governor is chosen, when another ship sails, I will come if I can. At least I can send word.'

But she did not really believe he would ever come back. That anyone could cross the waters and return was almost as unbelievable as that someone could come back from the dead.

'No matter what happens, I am with you,' she said, caught between tears and sad laughter as she found herself using words he had used to her, it seemed, a long time ago. 'And I will have this.' She showed him his compass, and he nodded and pressed it into her hand.

Then she bent over and kissed him, briefly and fiercely. When she straightened, their eyes met and each saw that, for the moment, the other had enough strength.

He gave a sign to the stretcher-party that they could lift him up. They lost no time. Pocahontas stood up at the same time as they did and remained standing where she was as they moved away. Her hand slid down over John Smith's wrist, clasped his fingers for a moment, and then dropped to her side. She had touched him for the last time. Her face felt numb and rigid, but she did not weep.

They laid John in the ship's boat: Thomas and Ben Macquarie pushed it off as the sailors got their oars out. 'Good luck, lad,' said Ben, and 'God-speed, John,' said Thomas, choking. They turned and splashed back onto the beach. 'Let's hope the wind is with him,' said Ben in a harsh voice.

Pocahontas watched the small boat pull over to the ship. The light of the rising sun was just beginning to strike on the water. Her throat ached with tears and she ached all over as if she had carried a heavy load all day. She saw Ben, as he came up the grassy slope, make a face at a young Indian boy who was standing just inside the fence with a basket at his feet, and heard the boy suddenly giggle, weary of the solemnity of the scene. This was her victory, then. Peace: for a few months, or maybe a few years; until the English got a leader who shared the mind of the dead chief whose body was now buried at the waterside; or until the settlers' desire for land and wealth overstretched what her people were able to grant; until tempers snapped and the work of understanding became too hard ... it could not be very long. She was not dissatisfied. Her father's wars had taught her that no victory lasts forever. Even if the reward had been still smaller, she and John would have acted as they had done – they could have done nothing else. But if only ...

The ship that was as tall as a cliff began to be busy with shouts and movement, the usual bustle of men at work, with the free, buoyant ring of a homeward voyage. A chant went up, astonishing Pocahontas by its familiar sound, and the huge anchor rose, streaming with liquid light. Then the tiny figures of men placed along the cross-beams of the masts broke out the sails. All at once the great white sheets dropped, smoother and more shining than the clouds for which she had taken them at first sight, and began to tremble, catching the wind. The ship moved. The beauty of it was more than Pocahontas could bear. Her father's hands were resting comfortingly on her shoulders, but she stepped from under them, blind with tears, and broke into a run, away under the cool shade of the trees.

To do what? She could not plead with him to come back to her after all: the ship was moving. No shout could reach it now, no canoe could outpace it. But she ran on, and up, and up, without slackening her speed, her breath sobbing in her lungs and her heart hammering, until at last she came out at the end of the trail, on the edge of the cliff by the waterfall where she had stood so often to listen and feel the wind in her hair.

From there she could see the whole estuary, out to the open sea. The ship had not gone very far yet: it had barely passed the foot of the cliff, and was small with height rather than distance. She could not recognise any of the figures on deck, but she knew that, outlined against the sky as she was, if anyone looked up towards her from the ship they would see her. And surely he would look. She felt like a burning tree, with a glowing shaft of pain at her centre and incandescent leaves of longing whirling away from her on the wind that blew freshly out to sea.

John Smith had asked the men to lay him on deck as long as they were in calm water, so that he could feel the sun and wind. He had always loved the beginnings of voyages. He lay there, drowsy, warm and dry under the deerskin cloak. The jolting of the freshening waves against the hull hurt him, but it roused him too. You have found your life, after all, he told himself. It does not matter, now, where you are, sick or well, with her or away from her: she is there, life is there, and it means her.

Whatever she does will be good. She can't fail herself, she is Pocahontas. The way she kept those armies apart, and laid her head down on mine ... Pocahontas ...

He thought he felt a strengthening of the wind, tilted his head to feel its direction, and opened his eyes. In front of him, as he faced the stern, was the high cliff. And there she was. It could be no one else: the straightness and stillness, the volume of her black hair blowing around her. He gazed until he could not see, then closed his eyes a moment and gazed again. She had come to do one last thing for him: show that she would be with him as long as ever she could. As he watched, he distinctly saw her hand come up past her head, then out and round in a slow and graceful circle, putting everything into the breadth and clarity of the movement. The sign he had stopped her making, beside the waterfall, beside the willow tree: _an-na _– goodbye. That was all. Having done it, she kept her hand by her side. Her stance reminded him of a captain after a battle, standing beside the corpses of his dearest comrades.

His eyes filled with tears, and he raised one hand. Of course he had never shown her that sign, and in any case she could not see him. But anyway, goodbye. Until some other time ...

*****

Pocahontas stood and felt the fire within her sink down a little as the ship drew further away. Only one thing was left for her to do, of the utmost importance: to stand straight, to be there, present to him and in his presence, as long as there was a line of sight between them. Something was left to her as long as her eyes could reach the place where he was. There would be time enough to walk back down the trail, listening to the silence and feeling the emptiness. Time enough to weep, wrapped in her cloak, alone in the forest. Time enough to take up the burden of peacemaking as a way of filling up her lonely days. Time enough to listen for the illusory, unfulfilling voices of spirits on the wind. For now, there was still something far more important than any of these: to send out her breath and her sight after the last reminder of the flesh and blood of her true love, until the very last moment, until the ship was a speck on the horizon, and then was lost on the endless waters.

**Thank you, all readers, for staying with me to the end. I would very much welcome reviews of the whole fic: what worked and what didn't, whether you approved of my changes from the movie and noticed bits where I was especially indebted to it, whether there were any bits I left out that should have stayed in, whether you agreed with my ideas of what the characters were like, any loose ends.**

**I feel that, although, as Grandmother Willow says, life goes on, the story ends here. I welcome sequels, prequels and alternatives from more sanguine souls: for me, this moment of perfect sorrow is what makes the story obsessive.**

**I don't know when I'll be next moved to create a fanfic, but I will be regularly visiting the community to find out what you are all up to. Keep writing! It has been wonderful being part of the Pocahontas page.**


	25. Chapter 25

**To follow on from the story itself, here are some arguments I put together to try to pacify the 'but it's not history' faction, although I don't suppose many of them frequent this site.**

**I'd like to respond to Laur's overall review, but can only do it here because you don't have an account. Thank you very much for reviewing! I was a b****it worried by the fact you saw Pocahontas coming over as bitter and downbeat in the early chapters. I meant to convey that she was intensely impatient for love and for a project in life, annoyed with her father for wanting to plan everything out for her, and also to a certain extent in tension with her culture as any passionate, highly individual person is bound to be in any culture. But I still saw her as essentially a happy person. If you could point out specific bits of the story in which she seemed too unhappy, I would be very grateful if you could point them out, as I might need to change something in any future presentation. The main thing I was unhappy about in my characterisation of Pocahontas was that I couldn't believe she would be so dithery about telling her father about John Smith, but I couldn't get past that if the plot was to work.**

INTRODUCTION

This is a novelisation of the Disney version of the story of Pocahontas. It should not be confused with fact, or even with imaginative historical fiction. This story is a fantasy romance.

The way I got involved in it was this: in 1998 my daughters, then very small, were given a video of Disney's _Pocahontas _for a Christmas present. They watched it over and over again at our home in Perth, Western Australia, and as I swished them round in the swimming pool to endless renditions of 'Just Around the River Bend', I began to feel that under the Disney whimsy and cute animals there was a very strong story trying to get out. Some sequences, especially the scene where Pocahontas and John Smith first meet and the scene where she saves his life, were most beautifully animated. The love story was almost unbearably sad, and I stumped around the house with my mop and bucket, thinking, 'Oh, why did he have to leave her?' At last I decided that the only way I could get it out of my head was to get my head further round it: to get involved in the creative process. It worked.

I knew the Disney version was not historically accurate, but the specific criticisms I read tended to centre round relatively superficial points like 'Pocahontas was only 12 when she met John Smith', in other words, things that I supposed artistic licence could cover. Google was in its infancy then. It was only some time later that I started reading about the early colonisation of Virginia and realised with a certain quiet horror just what a hash Disney had made of the facts. There was hardly a single detail, either about the main characters or about the background, that would stand up to scrutiny. By then, however, I was in it up to the neck: it was the Disney story I wanted to write, not the facts. Whatever else you say about the Disney people, they do good narrative. All the main relationships and incidents in my story come from Disney; I've only tried to embed them in a slightly more plausible and serious social setting, especially given that a written story cannot get away with the abrupt veering between comedy and seriousness that a film can. (Animated films can also get away with physical impossibilities, and some of these perforce survive incongruously in my version, for instance the rescue at sea, or the coincidence whereby Indians, English and Pocahontas all get to the same place at the same moment for the climax.) But a genuine historical novel about the 1607 expedition would have to be much darker and stranger; indigenous New World cultures are not very accessible to the modern European mind, and not at all conducive to romance, but it was romance I wanted.

A quick resumé of the things you mustn't believe about this story: the 1607 expedition was not, of course, the first contact between English and native Americans, as it appears here. Attempts at colonisation of the Atlantic coast of North America had already been going on for a generation or more, and the English were getting to be a familiar sight in those parts. The colonists were organised quite differently from the way I show them. Perhaps most embarrassing of all, the geography of the Disney version is nonsense: the cliffs and waterfalls that play such a captivating part in the animated film are not to be found anywhere in the vicinity of the original Jamestown, but I couldn't do without them. Jamestown and Werowocomoco were many miles apart. As for the native Americans, the evidence does not support the picture of Powhatan as a benign, statesmanlike figure, or his people as peace-loving pantheists in harmony with nature. I have tried to avoid the worst excesses of 'noble savage' cliché and at least make the native Americans look like human beings that might at one time have existed; I have also tried to work in some genuine aspects of their culture like matrilineal inheritance. However, basically, reader, I made it up. Rather than being based on in-depth research, my Indians owe much to fictional representations of pre-state societies in Europe, like the archaic Greeks in Mary Renault's novels, or the Stone Age northerners of Michelle Paver's _Wolf Brother _series, and also to the Nigerians in _Things Fall Apart _by Chinua Achebe. I know a good deal more about Jacobean England, and flatter myself that in the case of the English I have achieved an artful blend of authenticity with modern sensibility, but am ready to be corrected.

Not a single one of the events in this story really took place – except that the English did arrive and found Jamestown in 1607, and possibly that Pocahontas saved John Smith's life. But that did not take place in anything like the way it is described here. The only evidence for the episode is John Smith's own account, written in 1624, which goes like this:

[John Smith had been captured by Indians while exploring the head of the James river, and was brought to Powhatan, their 'emperor', at Werowocomoco. Smith describes the seating plan in Powhatan's hall, and what everyone wore, in detail; he was treated ceremoniously at first, but then things turned nasty.] 'Having feasted him [Smith, like Caesar, refers to himself in the third person] after their best barbarous manner they could, a long consultation was held, but the conclusion was, two great stones were brought before Powhatan; then as many as could laid hands on him, dragged him to them, and thereon laid his head, and being ready with their clubs to beat out his brains, Pocahontas, the king's dearest daughter, when no entreaty could prevail, got his head in her arms, and laid her own upon his to save him from death: whereat the emperor was contented he should live to make him hatchets, and her bells, beads, and copper; for they thought him as well of all occupations as themselves. For the king himself will make his own robes, shoes, bows, arrows, pots; plant, hunt, or do anything so well as the rest.'

And that's it. Oceans of ink have been spilled discussing the truth or otherwise of the episode; it seems likely to be true – a fantasist would surely embroider the fantasy a little beyond this brief and deadpan account – but it will not bear the weight it has been given as a symbolic, mythical origin point in American history. That only came later, with the desire of Pocahontas's descendants, the founding fathers of Virginia, to magnify her importance, and of everyone to emphasise one of the rare episodes that reflects credit on all parties in this mostly sorry tale. And also, admit it, because it's such a good story. The princess who defies her father to help the young hero on his quest and save his life is one of the most basic plots in literature, going back to the ancient Greeks at least, and to object to it in this case because it's dodgy history or colonialist politics is perhaps to put partisanship above common humanity.

Captain John Smith was not captain of a ship, but a professional soldier with exploring as a second string. He was certainly fearless, but far from being handsome and charming, he was an abrasive character who got on the wrong side of almost everybody he met, and in his racial attitudes he was very much a man of his time. His most attractive trait, to us, is his insatiable curiosity. There is no evidence that he and Pocahontas were ever in love, but clearly she meant a lot to him: he mentions her several times in his writings, always with warm regard and gratitude for the various good turns she did to the English settlers.

Pocahontas, above all, still fascinates. Why did this twelve-year-old, the spoilt brat of a violent, unpredictable ruler, suddenly decide on that particular day in 1608 that life was for once not going to be so cheap at her father's court? Why, when 'savages' were regularly massacred or at best treated as cheap labour and casual sexual partners, was John Rolfe later so insistent on making a Christian of Pocahontas, marrying her, and showing her off in London, and their descendants on claiming her as an honoured ancestor? She must have been a remarkable person and I hope that at least to that extent there is something true in Disney's and my picture of her.

Ultimately, my excuse for hanging such a fanciful story on the names of Pocahontas and John Smith is that the real story of the encounter between European and American peoples is so dark that it's off-putting. The moral choices that were made were mostly squalid, and even they paled into insignificance beside the fatal impact of European diseases, which no one then understood: one of the victims was Pocahontas herself. As the poet said:

'Sad it is, too, when a child dies,

But at the immolation of a race, who cries?'

The response to the real story tends to be despair, but despair is not useful. Perhaps the only way in which the average person can be made to want to know more, and do something, about the terrible things that happen is through romance, through an individual story that, though sad, is not without hope and human dignity. If it hadn't been for Disney, I should never have bothered to set about finding any facts about the colonisation of America. I hope that, although untrue, my version may have a similar effect: to make people want to know more, and in the process, explore some ideas about the relative merits of a highly communal, traditional society and one that is more innovatory and individualised.


End file.
